


wolf, circle north

by MissFaber



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (I mean S L O W), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Season 7, Alternative season 8, Angst, Canon Universe, Cersei is a Terrifying Queen who does not just stand in windows, Character Study, Dark Dany, F/M, Fix-It, Littlefinger actually Does Things, Mentions of past abuse, Mutual Pining, Plot, Romance, SO many jonsa conversations, Slow Burn, Targbowl, The Great War, The Long Night, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, a time for wolves, character driven, essentially everything i would have wanted to see, everything before 6x10 is canon, it has been called a Slow Flicker and that's the most appropriate thing I ever heard, multiple POVs, picks up after battle of the bastards, show verse, the other characters feature too because I love them all ok, the pack survives, this fic has many POVs, this fic is just me screaming about how much I love Jonsa in the north, this fic is just very... indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 82,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: Sansa and Jon fought to take Winterfell, now they will fight to keep it— against a dead army and their king, a dragon queen, a lioness, and a schemer with a poison tongue.+an alternate season 7 & season 8





	1. dirt in which our roots may grow

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter title is from "North" by Sleeping At Last which is the *essence* of Jonsa— in fact, I recommend listening on repeat while reading this fic.

Eyes like ice chips, eyes like steel frozen over— this is what gives his pummeling fists pause, this is what causes the red to bleed from his vision. He looks closer, ears ringing, his arms moving slowly like dragging through water, like they are dragging through the river of bodies and blood and mud. 

She is composed, careful— and afraid. Quickly he searches for horror or revulsion and finds none. She is not afraid of him, then (the part of him that is buried in battle sighs in relief) and she couldn't be afraid _for_ him, as the battle is won, and not a muscle twitches in the body beneath him. Could she be afraid for herself, still? The words she had spoken the night before come to him, the confession that had chilled him to the bone; _If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive._ But he is sitting astride her monster, her tormentor, the man who brutalized her—

He is seeing red again, and he drags a ragged breath through his nostrils. 

His gaze rises to her, seeking a lifeline, and he understands when he meets the determined set of her small mouth. This is her kill.

It's easy, after that, to remove himself from Ramsay's body. As he stands over him he tries to memorize the bloody features, that ugly smirk destroyed. Already he knows he will need to draw on this image in the future, when he will pray for Ramsay's resurrection so he could pummel him and bloody him and _hurt_ him over and over.

But he won't be able to. Ramsay Bolton is already beyond his reach, already dead. 

* * *

 

When he hands over the keys, Jon already knows he has to look for her that night. He acknowledges her right to her own revenge but a wild, desperate part of him almost calls her back the moment their gloves brush; to do what, he doesn't know. To offer to go with her. To tell her to take some men with her, to take Tormund or the lady Brienne with her, to take them both. But he bites his tongue, telling himself that he will post guards outside the kennel, far enough away to give her the privacy she deserves, close enough to help if the tides turn. 

Even the thought of the possibility makes his throat dry. No, he will not post guards. He will post Tormund and Brienne. 

“Inform me as soon as the lady Sansa has left the kennels and you have escorted her safely to the lord’s chambers,” Jon tells Brienne, surprised as he always is by the force of her reassurance. He believes the sworn sword when she says she would die for her lady, and this calms Jon, wanting to give Sansa every protection he can. He wishes he could wait upon the ramparts himself, but he already knows the tasks and conversations will drag deep into the night. He will have to find a maester if there is one and prioritize the care of the wounded, he will have to counsel with Davos and Tormund and the northern lords whose men fought for him, he will have to arrange a rigorous guard of Winterfell and send men to Wintertown, he will have to send ravens... it could not all be done tonight, but he will do everything he can and the rest will be done tomorrow and the day after that. 

Later, he is surprised when the round-faced squire is the one to find him, waiting a respectful distance until Jon calls him forward, and tells him in hushed tones that Sansa is in the godswood. 

“ _Alone?”_

Podrick recoils slightly but is quick to shake his head. “The lady Brienne is with her, my lord.”

Jon nods and pats the man’s arm. He itches until he’s able to walk away, having excused himself from the lords and bidden everyone retire for the night. 

* * *

Even in the black of night, even against the blood red leaves of the weirwood tree, Sansa's hair is a beacon. Her once braided hair is now loose over her back. Jon walks to that sheet of silky copper, acknowledging Brienne and Podrick with a quiet thanks as he passes, noticing her hand go around her squire’s elbow and pulling him back with her. Sansa does not turn at his crunching footsteps, nor when he settles beside her at the root of the tree. 

Her eyes are trained somewhere below the weeping face on the weirwood trunk, her face betraying nothing. “Are you all right?” he asks, quiet and tentative. 

“It’s done.” Her hands, folded over one another in her lap, shift slightly, the fingers curling around each other.

He breathes out. “That’s not what I asked.”

She glances at him. “Do you remember what I said, the first day at Castle Black?”

He remembers so much about that day, every detail, but he knows what she is calling him to. She had repeated this sentiment to him many times over the last few moons, and he suspects they have become their own form of armor.  _I’m not alone anymore. I’m grateful._

It still shocks him that Sansa is content with so little, still curls his fingers into fists when he contemplates how much she must have suffered to feel so grateful at merely being safe, merely being with him.

“Sansa. It isn’t wrong if you felt scared or upset or shocked. If you feel any of those things, you can tell me.”

He knows her well enough to know she won’t. Still. “If there’s anything I can do. _Any_ change, anything you need, to make you more... comfortable. Just tell me.”

Sansa’s eyes soften a bit. “Thank you. We’ll have much to do, Jon. It’s ours again.”

“Aye. It’s yours.” He looks at the weirwood tree. How long has it been since he sat here? Could it have been with father? He swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re the lady of Winterfell now.”

“I have been lady of Winterfell already. In name, at least.” He watches the furs on her shoulders rise as she takes in a shuddering breath. “I haven’t been out here since .... we married. He locked me in my chambers after that.”

Here it is— it hasn’t even been a day, and Jon wishes he had Ramsay’s face under his heel. He tries to control the rage coursing through his body. “Which chambers?”

Sansa’s lips part as she looks at him, startled. Then her eyes lower with understanding. “My childhood chambers.”

He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.” How many times has he said those words in response to her suffering? Always so inadequate. He breathes and tries to remember his point. “You will take the lord’s chambers. I had them prepared for you.”

“Jon, you should—”

“I won’t hear of it.”

Her voice is softer when she protests. “You’re the eldest. I can take Robb’s chambers, or—”

“You’re the lady of Winterfell. It’s your right.”

He doesn’t say the words, but he should have known she would hear them anyway. She’s much too smart to miss them. So he isn’t surprised when she says, “You’re a Stark, Jon. Through and through.” Her hand moves towards his, settling atop his glove as light as a feather, yet he feels pinned in place. “You fought for our home like father would have. He would be so proud of you.”

Jon drags his gaze from the slender black of her gloved fingers to her eyes, and is shaken by the earnest in them. Shame ripples through him. It was she who fought for Winterfell. He— he had fought only for her. 

“I wish I could have saved Rickon,” he says, because this is the only other truth. He remembers Sansa's adamant _we know he has him, we do,_ in response to his doubt when they had read the letter, her insistence that they fight smarter, her warnings. _He's the one who lays traps. Don't do what he wants you to do._ Mistakes, so many mistakes he’d made. “If I’d just listened to you....”

“You can’t think like that. Jon.” He listens to the slide of fabric against snow and grass as she shifts to face him, his arm automatically reaching out to steady her. He keeps his hand there, beneath her elbow. Her knees are pressing into his thigh. Her hand reaches up to rest on his arm. “I wish I hadn’t been right, Jon. I prayed to be wrong.”

He can’t look up. “I could have done something. Gone into Winterfell to save him. Before the battle. I could have—”

“A suicide mission. Jon... there were many possibilities. You’ll make yourself mad thinking of them all, regretting them all.”

When he closes his eyes, he sees his lord father and the tiny Rickon, the smallest of them all. He sees Sansa minding the child for her lady mother, the only one of the children who had the patience or the desire to do such a thing. He looks at Sansa. How they had all misjudged her, even then. 

“Thank you for bringing me home, Sansa.”

She looks at him curiously, a tiny line forming between her brows.

His hand slides from her elbow to her wrist. He takes her hand and places it on his chest, holds it there. She can’t feel his heartbeat through the layers, but her eyes widen and her chin trembles slightly, and for a second he is terrified that she really _is_ that smart, that she understands perfectly. “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

She draws her bottom lip between her teeth, worries it a little. He knows she doesn’t like thinking about how he had died before she had turned up at the gate, and neither does he. He doesn’t let himself contemplate what would have happened to her if he hadn't been there, only flushes with gratitude that he _was._

But no, this is Sansa, he reminds himself. Even if he hadn't been there, even if he had (somehow, impossibly) denied her, this fierce woman would have taken back her home on her own. 

As if she hears his thoughts, she straightens her back and gives his arm a squeeze before pulling back. “There’s much to do, Jon,” she says again, and Jon is equal parts admiration and disbelief at this woman. His _sister_ , he reminds himself. “We should retire. I can’t imagine how exhausted you must be.”

Suddenly he feels it, the weight of the day, the weight of the battle and the bodies dragging him down. Without Sansa’s hands on him, it is all too easy to feel it. 

Jon helps Sansa to her feet and they leave the godswood behind. It would be there tomorrow. 


	2. fighting the memory, all on your own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Someone to Stay" by Vancouver Sleep Clinic. (Another Jonsa gem).

_Ramsey is dead._

The lord’s chambers are smaller than she remembers. Slowly, Sansa shrugs off her cloak and stretches out her glove clad hands in front of the fire. Eventually she removes her gloves and lets the warmth seep into her fingers, prickling the icy skin. She takes her time. She is not ready to turn around. 

When she does, it takes her breath away. The large wooden headboard that had seemed so intimidating to her as a child. She had much preferred the soft down of her own many feather pillows in her own bed—the same plush that had, in her imprisonment, swallowed her screams and suffocated her. Her eyes run over the details, all the pieces of furniture that had been a comfort to her on nights she was ill or scared. The layout is exactly the same, as if Lord Eddard Stark and the lady Catelyn had only just stepped out. If there was any evidence of Roose— or worse, of his son, but she cannot even think it— Jon must have removed it. 

_Ramsey is dead. He’s gone, dead._

Sansa releases a breath she isn’t aware she was holding. The slight smile falls from her lips when she hears a knock on the door.

Her eyes dart around wildly— she spots a pair of scissors and grabs them before opening the door a crack. A slight woman with a kind smile is standing behind it, her eyes on her feet. “My lady. It is a pleasure to see you well. May I help you undress and prepare for the night?”

A handmaiden. Sansa wonders who chose her, who told her to come. She is too tired to ask, and too frightened not to. “Thank you, but I do not require assistance. Good night.”

Her eyes dart up. “Is there anything I can do for you, my lady? Anything I can bring?”

Sansa’s eyes narrow by the slightest degree; even with her heart beating so quickly she is careful not to reveal too much. “What's your name?”

“Reina Perek, my lady.”

Sansa files the information away. She gives Reina a smile. “I fondly remember a few men and women from your house from my childhood. When I would visit the cloth shops in Wintertown, Linla Perek always had linens for me in the most brilliant colors.”

Reina flushes deeply, her voice is pleased when she speaks. “She was my aunt, my Lady.”

“Was? I’m sorry.”

She nods. “Is there anything my lady requires?”

Sansa knows there are many a lady who would be shocked at a servant’s insistence and repetition when the command has already been given, the question already answered. She is not offended, but she is surprised; like she always does now, she stores the details in case they ever require further examination.

But when Reina turns up her doleful eyes at her, Sansa thinks she understands her. The servants in Winterfell have been Bolton prisoners, too. This handmaiden could have been one of them, and while Sansa cannot know how much or how little the woman had suffered in that time, she can see the gratitude shining in her eyes.

Sansa allows her mouth to soften. “I thank you for your attentions and service. Soon, the halls of Winterfell will be filling with guests, and there will be much work. You may take the night to rest and prepare. I myself will require no handmaidens, not tonight or in the future.”

Despite the small frown on her face, Reina nods and bows and takes her leave. As the door closes and the bolt slides in place, Sansa releases a heavy sigh, releases the scissors from her trembling fingers. 

_Ramsey is dead._

Sansa removes her gown with ease. The last time she had a handmaiden was in the Eyrie; since then she had fended for herself. In the beginning it had been difficult; she remembers the dress she wore in her flight to Castle Black, how she had twisted and turned painfully to unstitch it, how when the great filthy thing was finally pooled around her feet she had struggled to peel her shift from her skin inch by painful inch, the satin sticky with her blood.

Since then all the dresses she wears are by her design, and she is able to remove them without help. She picks up her cloak from the chair and hangs it over the large looking glass before removing her shift. She does not look at her naked body; she does not wish to ever do so again.

_Ramsay is dead._

Sansa tries to ignore the painful, itchy lines across her body where several cuts have opened up during the day’s hard ride and other exertions. This was easier to do when the mission to retake Winterfell occupied her every thought, when she wasn’t standing in the place it had all happened in.

She swallows. _Ramsay is dead._

Although the slide of a clean shift on her unclean skin is grating, she has no will to somehow procure a tub and water for a bath, no will left at all tonight.

For all her talk of being home and being the lady of Winterfell, this newfound autonomy is unfamiliar, unsettling. Her mother’s and her Septa’s teachings of how to be a lady are still in her mind, but the memories of her years of imprisonment are sharper. In King’s Landing and the Eyrie, handmaidens did their commanders’ bidding to her body without any input from her. In her marriage to Ramsey, the only one allowed to access her bodily needs in this way was Myranda, whose wicked touch and sharp smile were so cruel she would rather the dirt and the blood and the bodily fluids cake on her skin than be subjected to her care. 

Sansa shakes away the memories. It doesn’t matter. She reminds herself it is liberating to be able to control this aspect of her life. She will count her blessings.

Sansa settles onto the bed, each strained muscle and sore wound making itself known in these final moments before sleep. But there is no sleep; suddenly her mind is recalling every frame of every face of every dearly beloved and departed Stark, the arrows in Rickon's body the sharpest image, a long and thin body unknown to her, so different than the rounded child she’d cuddled. Tears sting her eyes and slide into her hair. That _monster._

 _But Ramsay is dead,_ she reminds herself wearily, praying for a few hours of sleep before facing what she knows will be a difficult day ahead. 

Her tears are about to turn into tears of frustration when she hears a heavy crash of something on the door, followed by a hushed and angry murmur. Sansa is already on her feet, the scissors once more in her hand, her eyes searching the room for any other weapon, the soft glow from the hearth revealing nothing. She will have to start sleeping with a dagger, immediately, she instructs and chastises herself—but she has no dagger tonight. The _thing_ hits her door again, heavy like a man's body or a battering ram. Her chin wobbles and she bites her lip so hard she tastes blood. 

She will go down screaming. She will strike at his eyes and his balls with the scissors and she will scream until the whole keep is awake. Jon will come to her. A shuddering gasp leaves her lips when she realizes she has no idea where he is, he didn't mention where he would be sleeping, and if he has taken Robb’s chambers then he is very far indeed. Jon won’t —

"...stop that, Ghost, you’ll wake her, _come here."_

The bolt is removed from the door and the door is open before Sansa is even aware that her feet have moved. Jon stands a few paces away in a half crouch, his hand in the scruff of Ghost's neck. In that single second she also registers the number of torches on the walls and the two guards at the end of the hall. One of them is Podrick, standing a few feet closer to her door than the other, who stares resolutely ahead.

Jon’s head jerks to her. “I’m sorry, I tried to get him not to...” His voice trails off, and when he speaks again there is a note of apprehension in his voice. “Sansa?”

His eyes widen as they move from her face to the scissors. He straightens and he has crossed to her in a flash. “What happened— ”

She raises a hand to cut him off. Her eyes slide to the guards. She forces her voice to be perfectly calm. “Come in, Jon. ”

Jon looks pained when he protests, “Sansa, it wouldn’t be... ”

 _Proper._ Sansa holds back a laugh. Nothing that happened to her the last time she was home was proper.

Jon is staring at his shuffling feet, occasionally glancing at the guards. He is concerned with how it would look to walk into her chambers in the middle of the night—an odd fondness twists in her chest, a yearning for the nights in Castle Black, when they rarely slept in separate chambers. Jon didn’t care about propriety then, he only cared about soothing her nightmares.

She is wary of the guards too, but in a different way. She refuses to be overheard. She is the Lady of Winterfell now—she won’t show weakness. It won’t be like Castle Black or like all those nights in the tents, it _can’t_ be. Her people won’t respect her if they have to listen to her nightmare-induced screams. Her cheeks heat when she realizes many in Winterfell have heard worse from her, have borne witness to the essence of her nightmares firsthand. 

 _Ramsay is dead._ Sansa speaks clearly for the sake of the guards. “Come and sleep by the hearth tonight, Jon, as you did in Castle Black. I am always grateful for your protection.”

Before the last word has left her mouth she already knows he will reject her. She can see it in that martyred look in his wider-than-usual eyes and the tense set of his shoulders. She swallows. “Of course, I understand if you need to sleep in a bed tonight. Goodnight. Can—” The masks slips for a moment, tears springing to her eyes again. “Can you leave Ghost? ”

His gaze falls to her mouth and he frowns. “You’re bleeding,” he murmurs, walking past her, Ghost in tow. The door closes behind them. Sansa watches Jon as he slides the bolt in place.

His shoulders are heaving as though from a great exertion when he turns around to face her. He keeps his eyes on the floor as if he can’t bear to look at her and something twists in her chest— did she misinterpret something, was it not about the guards? His voice is quiet restraint when he speaks. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“No. I…” Sansa takes a shaking, steadying breath. “The sounds of Ghost at the door alarmed me.”

“I’m sorry. I lost track of him and found him pawing at your door.” He walks to her until she can see the soft dark pools of his eyes, full of concern as they bear into hers, then fall to her lips once more. “Nothing else happened?”

“No.”

His thumb grazes the bottom of her split lip, hot as a brand. “My own doing,” she whispers, careful when she speaks as the pad of his thumb slips up to the seam of her mouth and she could so quickly taste it, it is so close to her tongue.

He nods. “Sleep, Sansa.” His breath is warm on her face and her eyes slip closed, suddenly so sleepy she can’t stand. His hand under her elbow leads her to the bed, and an indeterminate time later she opens her eyes. Perhaps it is only a minute; the windows are still dark as pitch, and Jon is sitting in the chair by the fire.

“Jon,” she breathes, and she watches him spring to his feet.

“All right?” His voice is a rasp. Gods, he must be exhausted.

“You need to sleep too. You must be ready to drop.”

Despite her bleary half-asleep state and the dark of the room, she registers the shake of his head. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t.” She hears his sharp intake of breath but can’t muster the energy to examine it, nor her own words. She pushes herself up on her elbows. “If you don’t come here and sleep—”

“Alright.”

She sinks back into the bed, and a moment later she feels the dip beside her. He is careful not to touch her, holding his body stiff, but she feels the heat emanating from him nonetheless. His soft murmur brushes over her like a touch. “Get some rest.”

She could laugh— it is so unnecessary and so _much_ , his care for her. Her exhaustion is like drunkenness and it makes her bold. “How did you know?” _How did you know to come, how did you know I need you?_

She falls asleep before she can hear an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment! :)


	3. let it burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene references a scene in episode 6x10 that also happens in this fic. This will only happen a couple of times, but when I reference a scene on the show, I don't like to rewrite it word for word. I hope that makes sense!

Sansa is too warm when she wakes, a warmth that has no place with winter approaching. A white mass has settled onto the lower half of her body, suffusing her with heat. An instant calm descends when she sees the line of Jon’s shoulders, still turned away from her and moving in sleep. Ghost rumbles when she tries to shift him off her legs, sending Jon into a mutter. A few careful moves later, a few painful, prickly shakes of her legs, and she is free to stand and walk to the door, where she is grateful to see Brienne standing guard. 

“My lady. Are you well?”

“Yes, thank you Brienne. Have you had any rest this night?”

“Yes, my lady.” 

Sansa eyes her sworn sword, but the woman wears exhaustion and pain so invisibly that she can’t decide if she is being truthful. Regardless, she makes up her mind to give her rest today. And she would do the same for Jon. 

“Jon is resting inside. Please make sure no one is able to find him until he wakes.”

Brienne’s lips thin but she simply replies in the affirmative.

“Can I ask you for one more thing, Brienne?”

An hour later Sansa feels transformed with skin and hair scrubbed clean and a fresh dress on her body. Her stomach urges her to break fast but she knows that once she does, the keep will know she is awake and the day will begin in earnest. In the silence of Brienne’s bedchamber she is gloriously invisible and isolated, a miracle that she knows she won't feel again for a long time. Already her mind is composing lists; tasks of healing from battle, repairing Winterfell from the damage of the Boltons, and preparation for winter. She wishes to extend the peace of this morning just a little longer.

And so Littlefinger finds her in the godswood, sending trembles down her arms that itch to clench into fists.

"Me, on the Iron Throne, and you by my side."

For the first time Sansa hears his dream, and she suspects it may be the first time he ever gave voice to it, that he may have carried it inside of him until this very moment. An undeniable pleasure twists his lips, which he then tries to mold to her own. Her heart seizes, her extremities freezing as she remembers her last unwilling kiss in front of this tree, and everything that followed.

_Ramsey is dead._

But Littlefinger is alive, and _he_ was the one that had sold her to him. His heart beats under her palm that keeps him inches away from her. It takes every ounce of her strength to keep her body from showing her disgust, her _rage._

“It’s a pretty picture,” she says instead, the bile in her throat belying her words.

She is grateful that her back is turned when he starts talking about Jon. _Pitting her_ against Jon, she realizes with a barely contained gasp. _Of course he is._ The practical, rational part of her that is composed of equal parts Cersei and Littlefinger and Margaery and Tyrion and Olenna chastises her for not expecting it. After all, where does Jon fit in Littlefinger's pretty picture? 

He doesn't. 

She walks away from the godswood with her stomach in a knot and a realization pounding in her head; Littlefinger is already plotting. Plotting against Jon. 

* * *

 

At the top of the pyramid where the large windows display most of the sprawling city and the crystal blue sea, Tyrion finds Varys. He was looking for his queen and he nearly retreats when he finds his old friend instead. But Varys has already sensed his presence, Tyrion knows, so he stifles a sigh and walks to the wine decanter. He glances out the window, wondering at what is so compelling about Varys’s view. The sea below is infested with ships.

Varys speaks without turning. “The Kraken and the Dragon, allied.”

“You don’t approve,” Tyrion says, not a question.  

“Euron Greyjoy is _not_ the kind of ally our queen needs.”

Tyrion agrees, but he doesn’t say so. It would be pointless. Daenerys has already agreed to the alliance, and she has proven inflexible. Besides, he won his own victory with Daenerys on another matter.

“He has ships. That makes him the ally our queen needs.”

Varys turns then, dislike dripping from his words. “He’s a kinslayer, a turncoat, he has rebelled against the crown a number of times.”

“So keep a close eye on him.”

Varys steps forward. “You and I have served many a cruel and volatile man we didn’t want to serve. Do you really want to add Euron Greyjoy to that list?”

Tyrion ignores the truth in Varys’s words. He isn’t serving Euron and he never will. He serves his queen, only his queen. He recalls the barely concealed distaste on Daenerys’s face as she had treated with Euron, and uses it to bolster himself.

“The Iron fleet is magnificent. She needs his ships.”

“She _has_ ships. The slavers’ ships. Is that not enough?” Varys tilts his head back, his eyes falling for a moment to the Hand pin on Tyrion’s breast. “What’s this alliance really about?”

Tyrion takes a sip of wine. “Don’t play coy.”

Varys sighs. “So she is leaving to Westeros. And what of this pyramid city?”

Tyrion averts his eyes. “We’ve taken care of it.”

Tyrion thinks of her, resplendent and pale in her lilac gown, as she named him her Hand. He had been named Hand before, to a cruel child king, but it was not on his merit, and he hadn’t received a lick of the recognition he deserved for all the good he’d done.

No, his fate has never been about what he deserved. From birth he was ridiculed for being a dwarf and blamed for his mother’s death. Blamed for Bran Stark’s fall and assassination attempt, blamed for the death of Jon Arryn, blamed for Joffrey’s murder. Humiliation and abuse followed him like a dark cloud, save for the bright spots of kindness from Jaime. Never had he received validation until Daenerys Targaryen pressed the Hand pin to his chest.

“If you and I do our jobs well, we will protect our queen.” He points with his wine glass at Varys. “ _That_ should be our only concern.” 

“I hear you are also concerned with Daario Naharis,” Varys says with a shrewd look in his eye. “Why?”

“She will need to be open to marriage alliances.” He downs his wine. “And that man could become a problem.”

The knowing look Varys gives him grates at his skin. “I only want what’s best for our queen,” Tyrion says, defensive.

“If we were serving a king, he wouldn’t need a marriage to strengthen his rule. His claim would be enough.”

“That’s not true. He would wed to produce heirs. A king without heirs is the head of an unstable realm.”

“Our queen can’t produce heirs.”

Tyrion gives him a warning look.

“I know, discussing it… upsets her.”

Tyrion chuckles at the understatement. She accused Varys of threatening her life when he tried to discuss the matter of succession.

“But when we land in Westeros, she will be playing a different game. She doesn’t know, doesn’t _really_ know. You and I do.”

“The great game is terrifying.” Tyrion shakes his head. “You underestimate her.”

“Or perhaps you underestimate the lords of Westeros. They won’t embrace her willingly. It will be even worse with Euron Greyjoy at her side.”

Tyrion scoffs. “The lords of Westeros? We only need to win one great house and the rest will follow. They are sheep.”

Varys raises his brows. “Sheep? The lords of Westeros are snakes… they slither through the grass, searching for the winning side, false promises on their forked tongues.”

Varys isn’t wrong—Tyrion knows more than most how treacherous the lords of Westeros are— but Tyrion shakes his head still.

“They will see her as a dragon,” Varys continues in the gravest of tones. “The people… they aren’t the Dothraki who respond to strength or the slaves who see her as a savior. The people of Westeros don’t _need_ saving. They may not look at her with the welcome and the love she craves.”

“She knows that,” Tyrion snaps. Daenerys isn’t dull or delusional, she isn’t her brother, who foolishly thought the Westerosi people prayed for his return.

“She may know it in her mind, but she still hopes for it in her heart.”

“What are you saying?”

“The best way to serve our queen is to tell her these difficult truths. To guide her with a firm hand. Despite the fiery nature of her… temper.”

Tyrion half grins. “It almost sounds like you’re accusing me of going soft.”

Varys looks pointedly at the Hand pin on his chest. He turns back to the window. “Don’t be so eager to return to Westeros. Don’t forget who waits for us there, who we must contend with.”

“My sister. How could I forget?”

“Ah, yes,” Varys drawls. “But I mean someone else entirely, someone even more dangerous because of his ability to slip your memory.”

Tyrion downs his wine when Varys says the name. “Petyr Baelish.”

* * *

 

Varys joins Daenerys at the tail end of her meal with Euron, the man’s boorish laughter echoing off the walls and wrinkling his nose. He has been listening to his crude remarks and exaggerated tales for the better part of _three_ hours, the longest dinner he’s ever listened in on. When Varys finally makes himself known, unable to bear it for a moment longer, he sees that the plates have been cleared away. A decanter of wine, a leather skin, and glasses are all that remain on the low dining table.

“Varys, join us!” Euron lifts the skin high, rowdy with drink. “This here is the best rum in the world. Though it may be too strong for a eunuch.”

“Lord Varys is my esteemed advisor,” Daenerys says, sweet but with an undeniable warning in her tone. “You will speak to him with respect.”

 Defensive, Euron holds up his hands in front of him, palms forward. “I have a nephew who’s cockless. Though I tried to kill him, of course…” His grin broadens. “Not because of that. Because he tried to endorse his pathetic sister over me.”

“Theon Greyjoy.” Varys looks to Daenerys, whose eyes are unfocused and faraway. He hopes she is listening. “He was Lord Eddard Stark’s ward—the late Warden of the North, your grace. Very beloved to the Northerners, who haven’t forgotten him.”

Euron snorts. “So?”

“I do hope you haven’t made an enemy out of him,” Varys says. “We don’t want to alienate the largest of the seven kingdoms before we’ve even stepped foot in Westeros.”

“An enemy out of _Theon?_ You think little Theon’s so important?” Euron starts to laugh, but sobers a bit when he catches Daenerys’s stern expression. “Don’t worry, my Queen. It was Northerners who took his cock.” 

Varys smiles tightly. “Northerners who were unseated by the Starks, who have retaken their ancestral home.”

“It matters not who sits in the North, not until I take my throne.” Daenerys taps her wineglass with a finger. “King’s Landing is my goal.”

“As it should be, my Queen.”

“Lord Greyjoy, leave me to converse with my advisor.”

Euron’s eyes narrow, clearly displeased at the dismissal. He leans closer to Daenerys’s side. “I’m not a Lord,” he whispers. “I’m a king.”

“Not yet.” Her whisper is twice as deadly, the flicker in her eye a harbinger of fire. “You’ve bent the knee to me, haven’t you?”

Euron stares at her with eyes that grow wider. He does not look afraid. He looks enthralled. “ _Yes_ , yes, I have.”

“Go on. Do it again.” Daenerys rises gracefully to her feet, staring down the bridge of her nose at him. Her eyelids lower, drunk from the wine and the power. _“Bend the knee.”_

Without tearing his eyes from her, Euron shifts into the position. Daenerys smiles, staring at the kneeling man for a few long moments, until she is satisfied. “You may leave.”

Euron stumbles out of the chamber. Varys releases a heavy breath, which makes Daenerys chuckle. “Do you really find him so exhausting?”

“Don’t you?” Varys retorts. Euron is simple minded and vulgar and, if he is honest, more than a bit repugnant. He would have thought that entertaining a man such as he would test Daenerys’s patience. Yes, he is fully under her spell—an effect Varys knows she enjoys—but this is not a unique trait in men who meet Daenerys Targaryen. He wonders, not for the first time, what she really thinks of Euron Greyjoy, what she could really be getting out of this alliance.

“Is it truly so important?” Daenerys calls him back to the present. “What you were talking about earlier? Euron’s nephew…”

“That Euron wants to kill Theon Greyjoy?” 

Daenerys nods. “Will it really cost me the North?”

“In truth, I am not certain. Theon Greyjoy betrayed the Starks once, but I heard he helped Sansa Stark escape her captors. She would be the Lady of Winterfell now.”

Daenerys stares at a place somewhere past his shoulder, a habit of hers he has grown accustomed to—sporadic disassociations during conversations, where she looks with wide eyes into a faraway place that Varys cannot see, no matter how hard he tries.

“It doesn’t matter,” she finally says. “They will bow before my dragons.”

She makes to leave the room. Varys calls out to her. “One moment, your grace. I did come to converse with you, not just to divulge you from the pirate.”

She smiles, though irritation and impatience mar it. “What is it?”

Varys looks closely at her before asking the question. “Is it true you’re leaving this city in Daario Naharis’s hands?”

“It’s true.”

“I must advise against this decision, Your Grace.”

She smiles tightly. “The decision has already been made.”

Varys swallows his agitation. “Daario Naharis is a sellsword. He isn’t a prince, or a lord, or a diplomat. He has no education—”

“Neither do I,” she interrupts sharply.

“I mean no insult to the man. He knows how to fight, how to kill, and he is loyal to you,” Varys allows. “This makes him very valuable as a soldier, a military leader, even a Queensguard if you desire. It does _not_ qualify him to rule a city.”

“I will not take Daario with me to Westeros. I can’t.”

“Then don’t. You are under no obligation to Daario Naharis. But do not forget your responsibility to Meereen.”

“My responsibility now is to the people of Westeros. I’m the last Targaryen… I must look ahead.”

This time Varys cannot help the small sigh that escapes him. “Your grace… the city is in a precarious state. It needs a strong, capable leader. And it is your responsibility, no matter where you go, as _you_ destabilized—”

 _“Destabilized?”_ Daenerys’s nostrils flare. Her eyes blaze. “Meereen was a slave city. Because of _me,_ future Meereenese generations will never know what it’s like to be born in chains.”

Varys watches the emotions play on her face for a moment, carefully selecting his next words. “You’re right. You did much good here. But if you leave like this, it will all be undone.”

“I don’t believe that. Daario knows my wishes.”

“How can you know that the city won’t return to slavery the moment—”

“I can’t.” Daenerys inhales sharply. Her eyes are rounder than ever, and Varys realizes with a sinking stomach that she has decided not to concern herself with Meereen any longer.

“I must move forward,” she mutters, confirming his suspicions.

“This city is on the brink of destruction,” he implores her. “If you leave now, it will _burn.”_

Daenerys rolls her shoulders and gives him a small smile, leaving the chamber without answering him. Varys stands in the space she left behind, a single phrase echoing in his head, an invented response to his own plea. _Let it burn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to do it. I just can’t believe no one cared that Dany literally destabilized Meereen, left it with her unqualified spurned lover, and gotted out of there?


	4. delicate and difficult

When Sansa enters the great hall to break fast she regrets her selfish desire for isolation earlier in the day; the keep is in shambles, the maester overwhelmed by the wounded and the confused. Sansa meets Maester Wolkan's eyes over the untouched cold stew before her as he explains the logistics. This simple act of eye contact may be the hardest thing she's had to do, but she does it, still as stone. 

Maester Wolkan knows her every struggle and red-hot shame, knows every scar on her body when it was a fresh cut, knows her wounds better than she does. It was Maester Wolkan who stitched and mended her, he who had looked at her torn skin with inscrutable eyes and lips pressed thinly together. It was his hands that smeared foul smelling balms over her scars and inspected between her legs, hands that always paused as if struggling to piece her together again, as if it was impossible. 

It was he who gave her moon tea, the one act that had finally shown her where his loyalties were, an act that had sent her entire body into a tremor and torn grateful sobs from her mouth. He didn't place a hand on her shoulder or speak a single comforting word, he didn't dare, but it was more than enough. _The North remembers,_ she told herself that night as she submerged herself in the bathwater that would soon turn crimson, the moon tea drained and her insides already starting to convulse.

When he has finished speaking she promises to send five fast riders to Wintertown for supplies, to find all the women who can perform a simple stitch and send them to the west side of the keep where Maester Wolkan is drowning in the wounded, and to join them herself as soon as she is able. "I hope it will be enough," she finishes, to which he responds with an astonished: "More than enough, my Lady. Surely. Thank you, my Lady." 

He still looks surprised when she turns up in the large open room that has been turned into a makeshift infirmary, and the expression is mirrored in many other faces as she moves between the wounded with a needle and cloth in hand. The weak sun has set when Brienne interrupts her work. 

"Lady Brienne." Sansa stills the hand that is stitching a shallow shoulder wound as she spares her a glance, and she is smiling when she returns to her work. "I hope you've followed my instructions for today."

"To the letter, my lady."

Sansa didn't expect otherwise, but it relieves her to hear it. This means the Northern lords wouldn't be meeting until tomorrow, and not a single raven has left Winterfell. "And what of my Lord, Jon Snow?"

She doesn't need to look at Brienne to know her brows have risen into her hairline. But she can see the way the Hornwood soldier's mouth falls open. Sansa's nostrils start to flare but she keeps her eyes on the wound, her expression frozen. 

"Lord Snow... he is well. He is asking after you. He will be supping in the Harrow room an hour from now, my lady."

"And I will join my Lord." She places emphasis on the last two words as she has been doing all day, giving the soldier a comforting smile that snaps his mouth shut and returns the warm, contented look to his eyes. 

She rises when the wound is closed and clean and wipes bloodstained hands on equally dirty skirts, a futile movement, before moving to Maester Wolkan for a quick progress report. 

"We have enough, my Lady. I expect the wounded to be treated in full."

She nods, surprised at the swell of pride that hits her. "Please inform me directly if the supplies begin to wane."

"Thank you, my Lady." He bends into a low bow. Sansa's eyes are not the only one following the movement; everyone in the room has paused to watch. "Your service is the reason your people will live."

Sansa turns her head to find many eyes on her, filled with the same warmth that radiates from Maester Wolkan himself. Brienne's mouth is twitching into a small smile. Sansa straightens her back. "The people of the North are everything to me. Thank you for your faith, Maester Wolkan."

With a final nod she walks out of the room. She doesn't let her posture or expression fall until she is alone with Brienne in the lord's chambers. Yet she can't look at her as she sinks into the chair by the hearth. "What was that?"

"Devotion, my lady." There is an unmistakable swell of pride in Brienne's voice.

"I don't understand," she whispers, although already she knows it's a lie. "It was just one day, barely a day."

"I have met many rulers, my lady. None of them would tend to their wounded themselves."

"I'm not a ruler." 

"Not yet."

The words are too close to Littlefinger's for comfort. Her head snaps Brienne. "What are you saying? Are you accusing me of trying to take this away from Jon?"

Brienne's eyes soften. "Nothing could be further from the truth, my Lady. It was not my implication at all. I apologize if I offended."

Already regretting her outburst, Sansa looks away. Her mind swirls with faces blurring together, Littlefinger's and Lyanna Mormont's and Lord Glover's and Littlefinger's again. "I'm sorry. There's a lot on my mind right now. There are many moving pieces. The Northmen can be fickle, and Jon and I...." She sighs. "A bastard and a woman. It will be delicate and difficult, to unite the North."

"And it is important to you to unite them behind your brother?"

A question, not a statement, the rest of it unspoken: _why not behind you?_ Cersei's face flashes before her mind's eye, her slurred words as she told her about the woman's weapon. 

"I've seen what it's like to be a woman in power. Even the best of men will at some point reduce her to her sex, even the most loyal will at some point resist her." Sansa’s mouth twists. "And these are not the best of men, nor the most loyal."

After an extended moment of silence, Sansa looks up to find Brienne frowning. "What? Speak bluntly."

"My lady, it was you who told Ser Davos that he didn't know the depth of Northerners' loyalty."

"That was before we set out to call on the Northern lords for aid. That was before the Umbers, our _bannermen,_ gave my brother to...." She stops, swallows. "It was Northmen who allowed the Boltons to rule here. The Boltons themselves are Northmen who betrayed Robb and killed him. I won't forget." 

Brienne's voice is soft and careful. "It was also Northmen who fought with you to take back Winterfell."

Sansa stares at her lap.

"My lady.... men like Littlefinger are the true threat, yet you keep him here for his command of the Vale. I see the wisdom in that. Perhaps the Northmen deserve the same consideration."

"That's not why I keep him here," she mutters, before raising her voice. "I thank you for your counsel, Brienne."

Properly dismissed, Brienne leaves her chambers. Sansa has barely started to undress when a knock lands on her door. "It's me, Sansa." 

She opens the door and his gaze instantly falls to her blood-red hands and equally bloodied dress. She sees the breath freezing in his throat and his hands stutter out to reach for her. "Jon! It's not my blood. I'm alright."

He stares at her with eyes full of horror. "How—"

"I was helping the wounded. Brienne told me you wanted to sup together, I was about to wash and join you."

Jon nods, the tension leaving his shoulders at once, though he keeps his eyes averted when he speaks to her. "Would you like me to bring you a handmaiden?"

_"No."_ She draws in a sharp breath and holds it, counting to three before speaking again, and she is much more controlled when she does. "Did you sleep well?"

"Aye. I slept well past midday. It's a wonder no one woke me. "

Sansa hears the light ribbing in his tone and smiles as she slips behind her dressing screen. 

"Your sworn shield is quite the woman. I'm afraid I gave her a bit of a hard time when I couldn't find you."

She winces; poor Brienne, who is now owed a most sincere apology from both of them. She rinses her hands in the basin, watching the water turn pink. 

"No one knew where you were." His voice isn't so light now.

"The entire hall heard me announce to the Maester I would spend my day assisting him."

"You should be escorted by guards. Only people you trust, like Brienne." 

Sansa scoffs. "There's no one I trust like Brienne."

A moment passes before Jon speaks. "I won't let anyone by you who you don't trust to keep you safe. It's important you're escorted and your chambers guarded, day and night."

She steps out from behind the screen in a fresh gown. "I agree." 

He looks taken aback. She raises a brow. "I expected an argument," he explains. 

"Why?"

"Because you'd think I was overstepping, or paranoid. That you'd find being guarded stifling or unnecessary."

"Never unnecessary." Sansa gives a wry smile. "I see threats everywhere."

Jon's face falls and a strange part of her yearns to reach out, the same part that compelled her to touch him when he mourned Rickon, the part that seeks to reassure him and comfort him and wipe pain and disappointment from his face.

Instead she brings her hands together and crosses to him. "We've fought to take back our home, but it will take another fight to keep it. A different kind of fight."

Jon looks at his feet. "There's only one kind of fighting I'm good at." 

A small smile tugs at her mouth, though her heart feels like it will break into a million pieces.  _Cersei Littlefinger Margaery Tyrion Olenna_ , her makers, her teachers in deceit. Suddenly she wishes she could switch places with him, that she could be the noble one with a sword in her hand who fights on the battlefield, instead of the snake who fights with whispers and lies. 

"Me too."


	5. fear of falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Some of this dialogue was inspired by scenes from 7x01 and 8x02.

Rough hands shake her in the middle of the night. “Queen Daenerys! Wake up! Wake up!”

Daenerys starts, feeling the ship rock beneath her, so strange to her still. Her eyes find Missandei’s frightened face in the darkness. “What is it?”

“You have to make him stop,” Missandei pleads.

Minutes later, Daenerys reaches the main deck. Despite the deep black of the night sky, the world is lit with fire. Arrows fly over her. Men scream and run and fall. Daenerys doesn’t move for a moment, stunned, absorbing the chaos. A sudden, hard slam shoves her to the ground. She screams. But it is only Missandei, frazzled and frightened above her, who pushed her to the ground to save her from an arrow flying too close.

Her shriek alerted several Unsullied soldiers, who rushed to her. “Take me to Euron Greyjoy,” she commands. They fall into formation around her, shielding her body as they move across the deck.

Varys and Tyrion, disheveled from the night, stand near the pirate. Euron throws his arms in the air when he sees her, a manic grin on his face. A gash on his cheek has covered his neck with blood.

“Queen Daenerys!” He roars, fire raining around him. “I give you your first victory!”

For a moment it is easy to forget the context; the words send an undeniable thrill through her. But she quickly returns to reality. She is still shaking with rage from what Missandei told her.

“You used _my soldiers_ to attack Yara Greyjoy?”

Euron shrugs. He has to yell to be heard over the rage of battle around them. “She happened upon us!”

“Are we off course?” Daenerys snaps at Tyrion, who shakes his head.

“I swear to you, I didn’t go looking for her, my queen.” Euron steps to her, his eyes full of heat. “Would you have me do nothing?”

“Without my command, _yes_ , you do nothing.” The words are a snarl ripped from her throat; she watches with no small amount of delight as Euron cowers beneath her power. “You endangered my dragons, my armies, my advisors. You could have endangered _me_.”

Euron swallows visibly, though his eyes are still bright with defiance. She is starting to suspect that may be his permanent state. “My queen, let me—”

“No. If you act outside my orders again, you will die a traitor’s death.” Daenerys looks around the turbulent sea, the ships alight with flame. She glares at Euron. “Finish it.”

She waves at Tyrion and Varys to join her, a legion of soldiers protecting the small group as they move below deck.

“It will be our victory, your grace,” Tyrion mumbles. “I suppose we can take comfort in that.”

“I can’t help but wonder how many soldiers we lost,” Missandei retorts.

“Yara Greyjoy was traveling to Mereen. Why else would her fleet be on the Narrow Sea?” Varys says, dismayed.

He doesn’t say it, but Daenerys hears it. The implications. That she is unwise, that she foolishly lost a potential ally.

“If we were on Westeros’s shores, I would burn him.” Daenerys stifles the swell of anger at the volatile pirate who could prove to be more difficult to control than she thought. “But we’re not.”

* * *

Jaime waits for Cersei in her bedchamber, drinking from her wine. It is his third cup and this is _truly_ fine wine, fragrant and flavorful— unsurprising. But three cups have done nothing to dim his mind, nothing past a pleasant tingle in his fingertips. His pain is sharp. His eyes sting. 

He pours another cup.

To Jaime’s mind, his life has been long and eventful. Although men in their sixties and seventies would sneer and call him young, it certainly feels long to him. Unbearably so. He’s seen horrors, he’s felt the bite of pure shock more than once in his life. Still, his life as Lannister and Kingslayer and sister-fucker didn’t prepare him for the sight of Cersei on the Iron Throne.

For the first few seconds the prick of dread was unfounded, even made him feel guilty. Then his mind caught up and deduced what must have happened to allow Cersei to sit on the throne, to allow the throne to be vacant at all.

 _No_. Not him. Not Tommen.

Then, as if sensing his thoughts, Cersei’s eyes slipped away from him.

Helpless, Jaime could do nothing but stare at her, begging her with the heat of his gaze to look his way, to explain. But she only looked resolutely ahead. When the crowning ceremony was over she disappeared beyond the hulk of the Mountain and a legion of guards who quickly swept from the throne room.

He should have followed, Jaime tells himself now, except his feet felt like lead. He stared around at the faces he didn’t recognize and felt like screaming— _why are you all just standing there, when Tommen isn’t here?_

When he was finally able to move, he went to Cersei’s chambers, where he sits now. But the night hours have dragged and he doesn’t know where she could have hidden herself. She is hiding from him, he knows it. He senses it with the connection only they share.

_And why shouldn’t she? She knows you know._

The scrape of the door jolts his head to the right. None other than the bearer of news himself stands in the doorway. Anger swells in Jaime at the sight of him. “What are you doing here? Where’s Cersei?”

“She is dealing with urgent matters, Ser.” If Qyburn is surprised to find him here, he doesn’t show it. Instead he takes several steps into the chamber, peering at Jaime in that unnerving way of his. “Are you well?”

Jaime doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Qyburn has already seen enough from Jaime today. It was Qyburn who told him of his last surviving child’s fate, and out of everything between him and Cersei he thinks it is this that he will never forgive.

“Tommen was such a gentle soul,” Qyburn says. “Queen Cersei truly loved him. I _am_ sorry.”

Jaime barely nods, his jaw so tight it could snap. He wants to spit at him, the sniveling snake. As if he doesn’t know the role he played, the role he _must have_ played for any of this to happen.

“I’ll wait here for her. Tell her that.” Jaime is able to look at Qyburn then. “Tell her if she wants to sleep in her chamber, she will have to see me.”

* * *

In the coming days Jaime feels bitterness bloom within him like the ugliest plant, its black leaves touching more and more of his thoughts, as Cersei does her best to avoid him. 

They only spoke once. In the morn after his return and her coronation, they had stumbled into each other in the hall. Her face fell for a single, vulnerable moment before she embraced him. The chains at her breast felt cold through his thin shirt. Dazed from drink and stunned to feel her arms around him, he instantly stiffened. She drew back, so her eyes were on his when he blurted out, “Tommen?”

Her face was stone but her eyes shone. “He’s gone.”

“How?” She tried to step around him but he grabbed her shoulders. “How, Cersei? Tell me.”

An ominous clamber and a dark shadow told Jaime the Mountain stepped up to him, but Jaime couldn’t look away from Cersei’s face quite yet.

“ _Let go of me.”_

Jaime obeyed the cold command, watching his sister raise a hand to scrape the place where he’d touched her. He stared at her, appalled, floundering. He never had a true place in any of his children’s lives, but this was a new cruelty.

“Please,” he begged. She ignored him.

Now Jaime watches from a high perch as she and her Hand converse over the new map of Westeros, the painter still diligently at work on his hands and knees. Cersei is in another one of her dark structured dresses—everything she wears now is black as death, adorned with hard bits of silver. There are no more bright colors, no more Lannister gold—ironic, since she has never reminded him more of their father. _But didn’t he dress the same way?_

“I know it took a long time, but you can do it again,” he hears her tell Qyburn. Qyburn responds in a whisper that doesn’t reach Jaime’s ears. She should be whispering too, but Cersei doesn’t do that.

Minutes later her gaze flits up and she sees him. A scowl touches her mouth before she sweeps from the room. Jaime could choke on his frustration _. I would have killed every child in Riverrun to return to her, and she won’t even look at me._

That was what he said to Edmure Tully, anyway—that he would take anything, do anything, to return to Cersei. The desperation that had flooded his veins when he took his own cousin’s life years ago returned when he looked into Edmure’s eyes.

If it’s true, why does he feel so hollow? Why is he nearly sick with revulsion when he discovers the truth of the wildfire?

It takes Jaime a long time to piece together the truth of what happened. No one is eager to talk about it despite the plume of smoke still visible from the red keep’s windows—eyes turn to the throne or drop to the ground whenever Jaime asks. This in itself unsettles him beyond comprehension, but he decides to shake it away until he knows the full truth. Eventually, he does. On the day of Cersei’s trial, the Sept of Baelor had gone up in flames, every person within perished. Death by wildfire.

His son hadn’t perished within, as he had initially suspected. He had leapt to his own death.

As if she senses the change within him—and perhaps she does—Cersei comes to his chamber the night he learns the truth. Jaime has been drinking, every sip reminding him of Tyrion. He clings to the unbidden memory of his brother to avoid thinking about every other member of his family.

Cersei joins him at the table and only speaks after she has downed half a glass of wine. “I want you to be the leader of the crown’s armies.”

It is a mild surprise, but Jaime feels nothing beyond the irritation that she still wants more of him, that she hasn’t come here to talk about Tommen.

“Westeros is ours for the taking. The lords have been invited to the capital to bend the knee. We need their loyalties and their armies, and there is no one but you to lead them. We will make father’s dreams come true, you and I….a Lannister legacy.”

“And what Lannister will take the mantle of this legacy when you and I are dead?”

Cersei looks at him from underneath her lashes. Her grip on the stem of her glass tightens. “I looked at his face, after his fall. It was my punishment.”

Jaime blinks, aghast at the mental image of his son’s sweet face, mangled and broken.

“You will not punish me too,” she hisses.

“Punish you? I only wanted to speak with you.” His voice breaks. “To learn what happened to _our son_ from his mother, rather than roam the keep like a beggar for scraps of information.”

“It’s too painful.” Cersei turns away from him, twisting in her chair. “I won’t talk about him.”

“It won’t make the guilt any less,” Jaime says. He would know.

Her eyes are suddenly burning, with anger and derision. But her voice is a bare whisper, her words slow and drawn out. “And why would I feel guilty?”

“You killed his wife.” Jaime stares at her, focusing every part of his brain on reading her. He needs to know if she did it, he _needs_ to know if the Sept burned at her hands.

“That whore who used _both_ of my sons as rungs on a ladder to become queen?” Cersei sneers. “Her death is unfortunate, and only because of what it did to my son. But it wasn’t at my hand.”

 _My son_. Jaime tries not to flinch. “You deny it?”

“Yes.”

He has been terrified of hearing her admit it was all her doing, but this is somehow worse. He finds himself pressing, “How did Tommen avoid the Sept, then, if it was not your doing?”

“That _was_ my doing.” Cersei’s mouth twists. “I wanted to protect him from seeing his mother on trial for disgusting crimes. I sent Ser Gregor to him. I tried to protect him.”

“I believe you,” Jaime says, suddenly weary. “You’ve always been good at using the truth to tell lies.”

Cersei rises. She crosses the room in slow stroll that is only more terrifying because of her muted anger, rolling off her in waves.

“Soon I will have an army magnificent enough to hold Westeros and defeat all my enemies. You will lead them.” Her voice drops, softer and more deadly. “We won’t speak of this again.”

He has been craving her company and attention for months and days, but when she leaves he draws in a magnificent breath of relief at being blessedly alone. His breathing grows shallower until it is nothing more than stuttering gasps, and he is crying. His children are all dead, and every horrific thing he’s done—for _her_ —was utterly senseless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember I had so much fun writing these Jaime scenes! It completely took me by surprise!


	6. reaching out but you're pulling me under

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Killing me to Love You by Vancouver Sleep Clinic.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is reading, bookmarking, subscribing, leaving kudos, and you wonderful souls who leave comments! Just wanted to let you know each one brings a smile to my face.

Deep in her cups, Sansa laughs so genuinely that it occurs to Jon this may be the first time he's heard her laugh. Compared to another’s laughter her laugh can hardly be called boisterous, but it is so genuine and free and _unguarded_ that Jon thinks on nothing else for minutes after. He wants to hear it again. He aims to make her do it again.

Sansa was reluctant to drink at first, covering her wine cup with her hand every time the servants passed. Jon didn’t pressure her, he never would, but a part of him wondered if this is simply what she prefers now or if this restraint is motivated by fear. He remembers when she wordlessly commandeered his ale on that first night in Castle Black. He hasn’t seen her drink since. Her words from earlier in the evening came back to him; _I see threats everywhere._

She couldn’t begin to understand how those words made him feel; simultaneously hopeless and helpless and, strangely, mourning. For the Sansa of his childhood didn’t see threats _anywhere_ , was sweetly naive about the evils of the world, so trusting and giving and whole. This Sansa has seen so much of that evil that she can’t stop being suspicious or afraid. At least, that’s how he understood it, and this was what terrified him most; that he didn't understand at all.

He wondered when he would stop being surprised at how much Sansa has changed, if he would ever let go of the image he had of her from childhood, an image he hadn't contemplated even once until Sansa had shown up at the Castle Black gate, but now cropped up again and again.

Well after the food had been served and many bowls and plates were piled atop each other in haphazard, licked-clean piles, she leaned into his side and whispered, “No one else is coming?”

Jon looked around at their dinner companions in the Harrow room, one of the smaller dining chambers for meals that sat somewhere between intimate and public, such as this. Brienne and Podrick sat opposite them on the table, Davos and Tormund further down with a handful of free folk. This was everyone he’d invited for their first supper in Winterfell. “Aye, no one else.” She took his words as some kind of permission, summoning the servant to fill her cup with wine.

Now her cheeks are pink and Tormund has migrated to their table to tease laughter from her with his wild stories, which Jon initially objected to until Sansa murmured to him, “I don’t mind. I’m enjoying myself.”

So Jon sits back, thinking that maybe he can allow himself some enjoyment too, when the door opens. No one notices the slide of the door in the din of loud conversation and laughter, no one except Jon, and his eyes narrow when a man slips in noiselessly.

Littlefinger.

But Sansa is only a hair behind him, despite the wine in her system. The smile falls from her face by degrees and her back goes rigid as her eyes lock on the back of Littlefinger's head. A deep frown turns down the corners of her mouth. Then she is blinking rapidly and her lips thin, and Jon looks away from her to watch Littlefinger, who is turning towards them.

No. Towards Sansa. Jon may as well be a plank of wood in the wall behind him, for Littlefinger’s beady little eyes are focused entirely on Sansa, drinking her in with a hunger that has Jon clenching his fists under the table.

“Stop it, Jon.”

His eyes snap back to Sansa, whose mouth is barely moving behind her cup. “Control yourself,” she mutters, before lowering her cup and pushing her chair back.

“What are you doing,” he hisses through his teeth, his hand darting out and steadying her as she wobbles on her feet, his body curving towards her.

"I have to. This is for the best." Her eyes dart between his face and Littlefinger at a frantic pace until they finally settle away from him. Her mouth moves into a small smile and Jon knows that Littlefinger must be close, might even be standing right up against the table, but he can't tear his eyes away from Sansa's flushed cheeks and the infinitesimal sway of her body. "I'm going on a walk with Petyr."

"Are you _mad?"_

"You wound me, my Lord."

Jon's head snaps to the man who is, indeed, standing across the table, directly across from Sansa. Jon's eyes narrow and he tries to control his expression, tries to keep his twitching mouth from curling into a snarl.

"What do you say, Lord Baelish? Would you like to take a walk?"

"My apologies, my lady." Littlefinger's eyes are now locked onto Jon's despite who he is addressing. "I have come to dine with our new friends, so we can all become.... better acquainted."

"I understand, my Lord. A pity that I will have to find someone else to escort me to my bedchamber."

Jon's blood freezes in his veins. Sansa turns her head this way and that, avoiding looking at him in a way that can only be intentional. "Enjoy your supper," she says.

"Must you leave us so soon?"

Spots of color spring to Sansa's already flushed cheeks like she just pinched them. "I'm afraid I've been in my cups. I must retire."

Jon swallows. What in the seven hells is she _doing?_

"Very well, my Lady." Littlefinger releases a small sigh, then chases it with a slight smile. "I can hardly deny you."

Sansa nods and tugs herself out of Jon's light grasp, Jon who suddenly feels bereft without her arm in his hand, Jon who is _terrified_. He springs to his feet and has half a mind to—no, he is _definitely_ going to follow their retreating forms—when a hand on his shoulder pushes him into his chair so forcefully the breath is knocked out of him.

"Settle down, little crow."

Jon glares at Tormund and rises again. Sansa and Littlefinger are at the door.

"My woman is following them," Tormund whispers in his ear. "She told me to get you under control."

"I don't—"

"Who is that man? Why does he make you react that way?" Tormund chuckles. "All you little men, pining after that girl...."

Jon grasps the ends of his armrests so tightly it starts to sting his palms. " _That man...."_ He can barely push the words through his clenched teeth. "That man _sold_ Sansa to Ramsay Bolton."

Tormund stares at the door Sansa and Littlefinger have just disappeared through. But Brienne is noticeably absent as well. "My woman won't let anything happen to your sister. He may be evil, but he's a little man. If he touches a hair on her head, she will cut that hand clean off."

At the end of his statement, his voice turns rough with a twisted admiration that makes Jon so uncomfortable he has to look away. "She said they're going to her chambers."

"My woman cares more about you kneeler's rules than most. From what I hear, she doesn't even like _you_ going into Sansa's chambers." Tormund chuckles and fixes him with knowing look. "Quit your worrying. She won’t let him past the door."

Despite the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment, Jon tries not to panic, tries to let Tormund's reassurances work. Brienne is a formidable warrior, perhaps even better than him; he hasn't had the chance to spar with her yet, but he's heard from Sansa and Podrick and Brienne herself how talented she is. He remembers the story she told them of her fight with the Hound over Arya, a story that he and Sansa had absorbed in complete silence with wide eyes, greedy for information about their sister, though it wasn't Sansa's first time hearing it.

More importantly, Brienne cares even less about politics than Jon does, and she would kill anyone without a single consideration for the consequences if it means keeping her vow to protect Sansa.

"Alright," Jon grumbles, bringing his cup to his lips, wondering for the first of many times that night why Sansa did what she did, what she knows that he is too stupid to notice.

* * *

Jon tells himself that he won't check on her, but he knows from the first that it's a lie. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the familiar tall frame and the shine of yellow hair only inches from the door frame.

"Is Sansa alright?"

Brienne nods. "She is asleep, my Lord."

"Did— did anything...." Jon swallows. He doesn't even know what he is asking.

Brienne eyes him as if she is trying to figure that out herself. "The Lady Sansa is well."

He gives her a curt nod. That will have to be enough.

"Thank you." He starts to walk away before adding, "Not just for tonight."

Brienne lowers her chin in a nod of acknowledgement, and Jon turns away before he can ask for more. _Enough, enough, enough._


	7. in your woven mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Anchor by Novo Amor.

_Littlefinger is going to kill Jon._

He is going to kill Jon if he sees the look on his face, Sansa knows this. Jon's expression is an absolute twist of disgust and anger and hate, and he is so lucky that Littlefinger hasn't noticed it yet, hasn't noticed him at all because she herself is noticeably compromised and this has arrested all of Littlefinger's attention. For the moment.

 _Gods,_ she shouldn't have touched the wine. That was stupid, _she_ was stupid.

Even in her inebriated state, she knows one thing; she has to separate them, _now_. After less than a moment of indecision she decides that it can't be Jon; he would be difficult to persuade, obtuse in his righteous anger, he would resist and ask questions. But Littlefinger loves to be alone with her, loves to prey on her when he thinks she is weak.

So she dangles the word _bedchamber_ in front of him like bait, ignoring the shudder that slips down her back at the hunger in his eyes. The tense pull in the space between Sansa's shoulders snaps and releases when Littlefinger agrees to leave the room with her. She closes her eyes and allows herself a single moment of relief at diffusing a situation that could have slipped into something horrible.

Her stomach swoops uncomfortably as the door to the Harrow room closes behind her. A deeply panicked part of her wants to look back, wants to make sure Brienne is behind her. She only spared her a single, pointed glance before Littlefinger reached her, but Brienne was already looking at her with an intense focus, so she knows it was enough. She hopes it was enough.

Her mouth feels like it's full of cotton and she wonders what to say now, how to occupy him.

"It's not often that I see you in such a state, my Lady."

"It's true, I don't usually indulge."

"In fact, I would say this is a first," he continues. Sansa tries not to wince; he is obviously delighted to have  like this. "In all our shared time in King's Landing, you didn't take to your cups to celebrate... or to grieve."

Sansa keeps the tumult of emotions brought on by his words pushed down. "I was surrounded by enemies, I tried to keep my wits about me. But now I'm home."

Let him think her wits dulled, her defenses down. Let him think her unguarded, celebrating, happy to be home.

"It must be such a relief, to be among your own people again."

"I am grateful to those who answered the call. Who helped me take my home back."

Littlefinger hums low in his throat and Sansa knows she said the right thing. She hates that she has to lean onto his arm as they walk, not sure how much of it is part of her ploy and how much is necessary to remain upright.

"Lord Royce has informed me that he intends to stay in Winterfell."

Sansa takes a moment to run through the options as quickly as she can, to ascertain what it is he wants to hear. In truth she hoped Lord Royce would stay, as he was loyal to her father and Littlefinger was anything but. She is sure Littlefinger isn't happy; he wants to be her only tie to the Vale. "That is surprising. Lord Royce is welcome to stay as long as he likes, of course, but I had assumed he would return to the Vale when the battle was through."

"You still need his army, do you not? Your brother will not stop reminding anyone who will listen that the real war is yet to come."

Her stomach drops at the mention of Jon. "The Lord of the Vale is here to command his men."

He chuckles. "My dear, I am not a military man."

Sansa puts a hand to her head. "Of course, I... wasn't thinking. I assumed Lord Royce would return to Robin's side."

"Yes, he cares for the boy." He gives her a small smile. "But we all make hard decisions in times of war."

She groans. "I hope I am given a fortnight of peace before I have to make any more hard decisions."

"I hope so too, my love. I would give you peace, if I could." His eyes meet hers. "Perhaps one day, I shall."

They turn a corner. Sansa could count the steps to the lord's chambers from here, less than a hundred; close. Soon this will be over. She wonders absentmindedly if he is following her lead or if he knows the way to her chambers as well as she does. The thought makes her shudder.

"You must forgive me, Petyr, I haven't done my duty to you as hostess. I hope your chambers are comfortable?"

Littlefinger waves a dismissive hand. "I've been taken care of."

Sansa curses herself inwardly; she really hasn't done her duty, not at all. She has no idea where anyone is staying, here in her home. The thought makes her feel defenseless and powerless, like she is still Ramsay Bolton’s Lady of Winterfell. In the last day she has been constantly moving and trying to think of everything and she feels so bone-weary, yet there are still things slipping through the cracks.

"Will Jon Snow's wildlings be staying in the keep as well?"

Sansa's tired mind tries to come up with the right reply. "I don't know," she finally says when she's been quiet too long. "You must forgive me, Lord Baelish, for not having answers tonight. I haven't done much but rest."

"Oh, I doubt that," he says, but just like that they've arrived at her chambers. Littlefinger releases Sansa's arm and she almost sags against the door, both from relief and the lack of support, but then he turns on his feel to face her.

He stares at her in silence, _waiting_ for her, she realizes, and Sansa's heart beats erratically in her chest.

"Thank you for escorting me," she finally speaks.

"It's my pleasure." His voice is barely audible, husky. He leans in and every muscle in her body seizes. She doesn't want to do this here; not here in Winterfell, not when she is stronger and she is _home_. She doesn't want to let him do this as she did in the Eyrie, as she did when she thought she had no other choice, before he sold her, before she reclaimed her home.

But then he takes her hand in both of his, giving it a firm squeeze. "Goodnight, Lady Sansa."

"Goodnight, Lord Baelish." She hopes her voice is not the tinny whisper that reaches her ears. She doesn't reach for the doorknob until he rounds the corner.

"My lady."

 _Thank the gods_. Sansa peers over her shoulder down the other end of the hall, where Brienne is walking towards her. "Come in."

In the safety of the chambers with the door bolted behind her, Sansa lets all pretenses fall, unable to do much more than stand in place, shaking like a leaf.

"Lady Sansa! Are you alright?"

"Yes." She fights to steady herself. She clasps her hands together and drags a thumb over her knuckles. "Thank you, Brienne. Thank the gods you understood."

Brienne draws herself up to her full height. "I made a vow to you, my lady."

Sansa is unable to hold back a watery smile. "You keep it honorably. Every day."

Her sworn sword's eyes begin to widen and shine and Sansa turns away, not wanting to embarrass her.

As she begins to prepare for bed, Brienne speaks again. "If I may, my lady..." Sansa nods her consent. "You handled yourself well tonight. That can't have been easy."

Sansa rubs her knuckles absentmindedly. "It isn't."

"But I fail to see why it was necessary."

She sighs as she pulls on a clean shift. "It was necessary because of Jon's temperament."

"His temperament? I have seen him angry, my lady, but only when it was deserved."

Sansa can't help a smile at that. "You're right, and Littlefinger would have deserved it. Every bit of it." She bites off the last words with an anger that surprises her, then takes a calming breath. "Jon is like my father. He shows the people he doesn't like exactly how he feels. He believes himself honor-bound to act."

"Why shouldn't he?" Brienne says hotly.

This defense of Jon surprises Sansa, until she realizes that isn't what this is at all; it's an attack on Littlefinger. In this, Brienne must see herself and Jon aligned. The two must be itching to simply chop his head off and be done with it.

"My lady, you may not need him to command the knights of the Vale. If he is so dangerous you feel the need to... _humor_ him to such degrees, perhaps it would be better if you allow Lord Snow to bring him to justice."

"Jon can't be the one to move against him." Sansa makes sure her tone leaves no room for argument. "If I let Jon act like my father, he will die like my father."

"My lady, you can't protect—"

 _"Yes I can."_ Sansa whirls in place so quickly Brienne almost flinches. "I didn't stop them killing father, I was too stupid to do anything. Not this time."

She swallows as the rotten image of her father's decapitated head flicks across her mind; no matter how much time passes, it never loses its potency. She remembers every sickening detail.

She starts to pace. "Littlefinger may have already moved against Jon. If he hasn't, I have to keep him from making that decision. If he has, I need to find out what he's done, and I have to undo it."

At some point Brienne's hand has moved to the hilt of her sword. "You kept them apart for Lord Snow's sake. I see now, my lady."

Sansa drops to the bed, suddenly weary.

"I will help. If I can keep you out of Littlefinger's way, I will." Brienne's jaw is locked with determination or anger, her gaze faraway in thought. "Do you believe Littlefinger will attempt to harm you here?"

He would harm her, _oh_ he would like to harm her, for all his talk of love. He would harm her and punish her for her lack of love for him until she prays for death. But he would never give it to her, not so long as she has Catelyn’s face to kiss, Catelyn’s body to drown in. "Harm me? Yes."

Brienne's jaw clicks.

"But he will _kill_ Jon." Sansa makes a point of meeting Brienne's eyes. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

 Jon is on the highest walls of Winterfell, watching Melisandre's dark outline grow smaller and smaller against the white snow, when she finds him. They stand in silence for a few moments, Jon trying to collect his thoughts that have been scattered this way and that in this never-ending morning. First there was the emotional struggle of touching the table where his lord father sat, where Lady Catelyn sat, where Robb and Rickon sat. Where Sansa sat. Then Davos's heartbreaking revelation and Melisandre's banishment.

But Sansa was the first thing on his mind when he woke, wondering if she was awake yet too and if she was alright, comparing his disturbed sleep to the one from the night prior, the one with her in her bed.

So he asks her, although he thinks he may have decided not to last night— he can't remember. He asks her if she trusts Littlefinger after what he did to her.

"Only a fool would trust Littlefinger." Again, that wry smile. The one that reminds him she's seen too much of the worst parts of the world.

Does she trust _him?_ The question enters his mind, unbidden. He has been running on adrenaline and concern for so long that he hasn't pondered this, hasn't pondered Littlefinger's presence and the role Sansa played in it and what it means that she hid it from him.

He knows she saved him; he has acknowledged this and thanked her for it. _She_ won the Battle of the Bastards, she won Winterfell, through and through.

As if Sansa hears his thoughts, she says, "I should have told you about him." Sansa pauses and so does Jon, with bated breath. But Sansa doesn't say his name, doesn't illuminate anything further about Littlefinger or his place in her life. She is simply talking about the battle. "About the knights of the Vale. I'm sorry."

Her face is filled with such true remorse that Jon cannot bear it. He walks until his face is only inches from her own.

"We have to trust each other." His breath is white in the space between them, his voice is thick with sincerity, with something close to begging. He doesn't know what she isn't telling him, but he prays she will count him on her side, that she will remember it is them two against the others, that her enemies are his.

His glove cups her cheek and pulls her forehead to his lips, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his fealty into this moment, as he seals his vow with a kiss.

She is staring at his feet when he pulls away a moment later than he meant to, and but her lips are quirked up the slightest bit, so his heart starts beating again. She looks at him with wide and shining eyes, and his gaze is pulled against his will to her lips, and he turns away with a parting nod before he does something terrible.

_Enough._

But she calls him back and tells him words he didn't know he was waiting to hear all his life, _of course_ she does, wrenching such happiness from him it hurts. It hurts to think of the Stark words, of Ned Stark's staunch belief, of everyone who hurt him, the same people who hurt Sansa. But Sansa is happy as the snow kisses her hair, snow that holds new meaning now, and so is he; he looks at the sky and the snow and he can't help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable dialogue in the last scene is from 6x10. (I had to include the forehead kiss!)


	8. heir to winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/186242163466/wolf-circle-north-chapter-8-heir-to-winterfell) Chapter title from Ramin Djawadi's track.
> 
> I've linked all the chapter photosets from this point on in the very beginning of the chapter, where that little (x) is.

As she stands on the high walls of Winterfell, she feels Jon's lips on her skin like a brand.

He has left minutes ago, but Sansa's feet haven't shifted. She stares at the sun as it struggles against the gray and white landscape. She thinks of Jon's dark eyes turned liquid as he struggled to tear them from her face.

Her fingers start to tingle despite the cold, and she curls them into her palms.

She tries not to think on it again, and she manages relatively successfully until they break fast side by side. Again she feels the imprint on her forehead, the _proof_ of— what? His trust? His care? 

_His kiss._

"The lords are meeting today at midday," she tells him, more to remind herself. There is a most difficult day ahead, and Sansa will need every bit of her mental energy. 

"I know," Jon says around a full mouth. 

She lowers her voice. "We are meeting first. Privately."

Jon swallows his food and looks at her. "Why?"

She clears her throat. "I should have clarified. You, me, Davos."

"Davos won't be much use today," he grumbles. "Why are we meeting?"

"It's important that we have a smaller council to make decisions before we… make decisions."

Jon stares at her for a while before releasing a sigh and returning to his food. "Whatever you say, Sansa. You're better at this than me."

The words are praise but his tone is insulting; Sansa spent enough time with Cersei to know tone holds truth far often than words. She lowers her voice to a bare-whisper so that none of the diners around them, a collection of knights and lords and free folk, can hear. "Would you prefer to make all your decisions on the spot, under the watchful eye of people who want a reason to call you wrong? Especially when you feel bound to keep your word? Or is it my selection you take issue with?"

His eyes slip closed for a moment. "It's a very clever idea. I'm sure it will be a great help." He looks at her with eyes so tired, eyes that seem to yearn to be shut forever. "But I'm allowed. I'm allowed not to want it."

Sansa blinks. She knows he isn't talking about this meeting or any meeting. Terror grips her. Has she done all of this for nothing?

She snaps her gaze from his and straightens her back, lifts her chin, but again her voice is the slightest whisper— it would be beyond disastrous if anyone overheard. "If you don't want to lead us, Jon, inform me. But if you do it, do it fully. Do it well."

His voice is small and hurt. "Sansa, I didn't—"

"The North has gone through too much. It needs a true leader." She pushes her chair back. "Davos has already been informed. The meeting is an hour in your office. Decide."

* * *

 

When Jon appears, Sansa doesn't let her shoulders drop in relief like she wants to. She only gives him a glance and a quick nod. The sight of him standing hesitantly in the doorway with a tray of steaming tea and three cups does something to her stomach. 

"Well, what's the point of a secret meeting if you're going to leave the door open for all to hear?" Davos tuts and moves behind Jon to close the door, taking the tray from him. "Smells good."

"Lemon mint," Jon says, his eyes darting to her. Sansa meets his entreating eyes and reaches for a cup. 

Some grueling hours later they have a table covered in parchment and something resembling a plan. They have successfully agreed on a list of Northern lords to summon to Winterfell for a meeting in a moon's time. This task took up a significant bulk of their time, as Sansa and Jon kept disagreeing on whether to invite the lords who refused to help them retake Winterfell.

"Sansa, the lords who answered the call are here already," Jon said, exasperated. "What's the point?"

But she won on not inviting the Karstarks or the Umbers, refusing to relent no matter what Jon or Davos said, the image of Rickon's arrow filled body fueling her.

They drew up a list of issues to present in this meeting and the one in a month. The focus of today's meeting would be fortifying Winterfell and more permanent plans for placement of all currently within its walls. Jon agreed after some resistance to postpone the discussion of the war against the dead. 

They agreed on a stance regarding every point so as to present a united front to their people. Sansa learned of the many lords' placement within the keep, which gave her a significant sense of relief, and they reworked the map to accommodate the coming influx as best as possible. They decided to present the lords with the gift of a feast in ten days’ time.

"It will be difficult." Sansa bit her lip; the struggle with the food stores would only grow worse, she knew. "But it's important for morale to celebrate, to thank them for everything they sacrificed."

Jon gave her an understanding look that instantly put her at ease. "We will discuss the food shortage and prepare for winter. We will manage."

_We._

When the final matter is concluded and Sansa and Jon have slumped back in their chairs, Davos excuses himself. The way Jon looks after his retreating figure has Sansa asking after him. "He received some ill news," Jon explains.

"Will he be alright?"

"Yes." Jon rubs a hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry about earlier."

Sansa looks at him, trying to read him. She has become quite good at not allowing her own hopes or delusions taint the truth of what she can actually see in front of her—a lesson hard learned from many mistakes— but she still makes errors with Jon, despite him being one of the most transparent men in Westeros. 

"I took your presence here to mean that you've decided." She presses her lips together. It's difficult to be speak so plainly, to _ask._ "Will you lead as Warden of the North?"

"I will."

He says it as seriously as he says anything, and it should be enough, but it bothers her, it pushes her the wrong way. She wants to push him back. "But you don't want to?" 

Jon gives her a dark look. She presses on. "You said so this morning."

"You speak as if I've never had command. I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I took it seriously. I died for it."

"You didn't want to be Lord Commander either."

"Who told you that?"

Sansa lifts her chin, not letting his hot gaze get to her. "Dolorous Edd."

"Oh? And what else did Edd tell you?"

"He told me Stannis Baratheon offered you lordship of Winterfell, and you _refused_." Sansa watches with a spike of perverse pleasure as Jon's eyes blow open with shock and hurt. "He told me that before I came to Castle Black you were going to leave the North, to go beyond to where there's nothing but summer heat."

Jon blinks. "Why...?"

Sansa sighs. "He was thanking me, Jon. He said he wished you could have stayed with the Night's Watch but that he's grateful to me for keeping you in the North, for reminding you of who you are and what you care about, because you will still stand beside him to fight the Night King." The words pour out of her, rushed. "I need to know that you won't do the same thing, even if you are betrayed, because it could happen. I need to know you will be a Lord and Warden, that you will stay in Winterfell."

Jon's eyes snap to hers. "Do you think I'd leave?"

A cold slips over her. She is afraid of that, exactly that. "I'm not sure." She speaks slowly, working out her thoughts with each word. "I know you would stay in Winterfell if there was no one looking to you for command or care. But I push you to embrace more... you resist it. It frightens me."

Jon's eyes are as wide as saucers, his body absolutely still. "I don't want to you to think I'd abandon you. That I'd fail you."

"And would you fail or abandon the North?"

All at once, she can feel it— pieces within her clasping together. She and the North. One and the same.

Jon takes a moment before answering, which she appreciates, and when he does it is full of conviction. "No."

Heart pounding, Sansa nods and gets to her feet. She has just turned away from the table when his voice arrests her. "Wait."

She does.

"Sansa, you—" He pauses and even with her back turned to him she can imagine him dragging a hand over his eyes, or his mouth or his bearded jaw, as he often does. "You don't understand. If you think command of the Night's Watch and being Lord of Winterfell are the same to me, you don't understand me." 

Sansa inhales and opens her mouth to speak, but he is too quick.

"I used to dream of being Lord of Winterfell when I was a child. I would think only a great deed would ever earn me such a thing, and I would dream of saving father’s life."

A gasp tears itself from her body; Sansa turns slowly, as if moving through water, to look at his face. She has to see his face.

"When I got older I understood that no heroic act would ever make me Lord of Winterfell. The only thing that might..." His face twists on the edge of breaking, his features contorting to hold in the pain. "Your deaths. If my brothers died childless. Even then, there was you and Arya. When Bran fell from the tower, I felt the shame for the first time, the disloyalty I'd harbored in my heart for ever wanting to be father's heir. And every day since, worse and worse with every loss..."

His voice breaks at the end of the last, and his breath stutters as he attempts to collect himself. "Winterfell is Robb's by right, it’s Bran's and Rickon's. But I never.... you say I don't _want_ it, but it's all I wanted. Those dreams are dead. There's nothing good about being Lord of Winterfell... it was bought by blood. My brothers' blood." 

Sansa rushes to his side. She bends to her knees beside him, pulling his hand with both of hers and clasping it tightly over her chest. All she can see are his eyes, twin pools of pain, wet with unshed tears. He stares at her like he is begging. "Sansa, I never wanted harm to come to any of them."

"I know. I know."

"When I say I don’t want it... what I _mean_ is—"

"I know. I understand now." She has to cut him off, because every word is causing him pain, and she can't stand it if he looks any worse, she won't be able to handle it if a single tear slides down his cheek. "It makes you a good man, Jon. The best man."

A line of confusion and contemplation appears between his brows. She has never felt closer to him than this moment, has never seen him more clearly, and what she sees is so pure and good and reminds her so much of everything _Stark_ that she wants to look away. But she doesn't. She repeats the words she said to him this morning, words she will repeat until the guilt is washed away.

"You are a Stark." When his jaw clenches and his hand jerks within hers, she clasps it tighter, dragging him closer to her heart. "You didn't buy that with blood, Jon. You didn't buy Winterfell with blood. You didn't buy it at all. You were _born_ from Lord Eddard Stark. Before anything happened to our brothers, you were _born_ from him. Do you understand?"

"Sansa..." His eyes are shut and his voice is a rasp of pain. "I'm a bastard."

"That doesn't matter." Her voice is getting higher by the second, closer and closer to breaking. "You deserve Winterfell just as much as our brothers did."

He looks at her from beneath barely opened lids. " _You_ deserve Winterfell."

"And if I'm the one who wants you to be Lord?" Her eyes narrow the slightest degree, challenging him. "If I want you at my side, if I want us to do this together?"

His gaze grows with heat. "Yes."

"I believe that you'll be a good ruler _precisely_ because of everything you've said. I know rulers." She shuffles closer to his side, impossible as she is already pressed against the leg of his chair, her hands and his sandwiched between his leg and her chest. "You will have help. Your advisers. Me. I'll defend you, I'll stand by you. I need to know you'll stand by me—"

"Of course, Sansa." His voice is as rough as gravel. "Don't doubt it for a second."

Minutes pass but neither of them moves. Sansa’s knees start to ache but she ignores it. Her legs grow numb and she ignores that too. All she feels is Jon’s hand in hers.

They stay still until a knock falls on the door, and Sansa could have stayed still until night came and they both fell asleep. Instead they rise together and straighten themselves out, brushing their hands over their clothing as if they wear the intimacy of the shared moment like a layer of dust. They offer each other tremulous smiles and Sansa reaches for his hand. Together they walk to the hall where the Northern lords wait. _Together._ Like they have been since that first night at Castle Black. _Like we will be always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh!! <3 this is my personal favorite chapter in the story so far. Leave a comment!


	9. a little broken, a little new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/186429504586/wolf-circle-north-chapter-9-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "North", Sleeping At Last.

A flash of that yellow hair and Tormund is sitting straight, the horn of goat’s milk forgotten in his suddenly loose grip. Those sky blue eyes. She is broad and strong, taller than even him—fuck, he has never seen a woman like her.

It takes several prods for Tormund to address Davos, who has abandoned his ale to look at him like he has two heads. “ _What_ , man?”

“She is a _lady,”_ Davos says, a new layer of sternness in his voice Tormund hasn’t heard before.

“I see that.” Oh, he sees it. He sees her fine shoulders and her lovely legs underneath that knight’s armor she wears. He sees the pretty line of her mouth. Those hips would be good to birth babes. A dozen giant babes to take over the world, capped with flaming red or pale yellow, Tormund wouldn’t mind either. He wouldn’t care the slightest bit.

Brienne hasn’t noticed him yet, and that won’t do. He jumps to his feet. “I was hopin’ you’d find me,” he calls.

She notices him then. That scowl she seems to wear only around him— and that rat-like man they call Littlefinger, he’s noticed, but only when his back is turned—graces her face. The only appropriate response, of course, is a grin.

He shoves his drink in her direction. “Come to forget?”

She eyes the horn in his hand like it’s the carcass of a dead animal.

“Hello, Ser Davos.” Her tone changes completely when she addresses his companion, and the change makes his grin widen.

“Good evening, my lady.”

“Just Brienne,” she says, tightly. Tormund observes the lines in her neck tighten—he aches to rub the tension from there, from all the other lines and curves of her body.

“It’s morning for me, actually,” she tells Davos, _not_ him, that much is clear. She moves around the kitchen, gathering bread and cheese into a plate.

“Need help with that?” He is still grinning, he can’t help it around her. He knows his grin isn’t a pretty thing, and for the first time in his life he almost wishes it was.

_“No.”_

“Didn’t think you would,” he says, unable to keep the smirk or the raw admiration from his voice. Though he would give her his fists and his sword and his blood the second she lets him, she doesn’t _need_ them—no, this fearsome woman doesn’t need him at all.

He rushes to the icebox where he knows they keep a bit of chilled fish. One of the kitchen girls took a liking to him and showed him these kitchen secrets, and although Tormund didn’t entertain her—of course he didn’t, he only has eyes for the big woman, _his_ woman—he is grateful now for that kitchen girl, as he presents Brienne with the fish.

She eyes his offering and promptly ignores it, although Tormund knows she likes the fish—he’s seen her favoring it at multiple meals.

“Would you prefer the meat?” He says, _completely_ unnecessary, but he has to try. He has to keep trying.

“Don’t concern yourself with what I eat,” she snaps.

A hundred filthy responses cross his mind. Instead he says, “I wouldn’t dare.” He decides to be amicable for once and somehow it makes her _angrier,_ she is near-seething beside him.

“Are you riding out to the wildling settlement with the lady Sansa tomorrow?” Davos interrupts. Yet when Tormund glares at Davos for the interruption, the older man is frowning at him.

“Free folk,” Brienne gently corrects, and if he wasn’t already in love, he is now. “I am. And you will be accompanying Lord Snow?”

“Yes. Did—”

“I’ll be there,” Tormund interjects, although neither of them comment or even look his way.

 _“Did Lord Snow_ tell you what time we would be departing?” Brienne continues, her voice frustrated. “I would like to ascertain the journey’s safety for Lady Sansa.”

“In the morning before—”

“My people wouldn’t hurt her.” Tormund takes advantage of the swell of defensiveness and that touch of anger in him to crowd her, watching her eyes widen by degrees as his puffed up chest comes closer. “They know who she is.”

“I didn’t mean _you.”_ It’s a vicious snap though her words are kind. Her eyes harden to flints of ice as she turns their full power on him. “Anyone who dares to try and hurt my lady will meet with my sword. Southern, Northern, free folk.”

She thinks she’s putting him off, he knows, though she couldn’t be more wrong. That might work on weaker men but it does nothing but entice him. “I know it.”

Her eyes slip away from him and she moves for the door. “Goodnight, Ser Davos.”

“What did you mean, then, about the journey’s safety?” It isn’t the cleverest question but Tormund wouldn’t call himself a clever man. Besides, he just needs to keep her here, just a bit longer.

Her eyes shift, and Tormund already knows before she speaks that she’s hiding something. She and her lady, the little crow’s kissed-by-fire sister, always keeping their secrets. “I need to check on Lady Sansa’s horse. She doesn’t like riding.”

“Do _you_ like riding?” _And I don’t mean horses._

“I’m quite good at it.”

Tormund smirks and his eyes rake down her form. “With those legs, I bet you are.”

When he looks up she is _glaring,_ the fire in her eyes making all her other looks to him feel like caresses. Her rage sends the blood right to his cock. He grins. Oh, she is delightful. 

“You are ignoble and uncouth,” she hisses, words he doesn’t understand, and that’s alright. He understands her meaning perfectly well. She storms from the room but leaves the cloud of her rage behind, thickening the air. He grins at Davos but the older man’s face is twisted up like a prune.

“I like her,” Tormund tells Davos before he can open his mouth and say something that might actually shake the grin from his face. Something about how she’s a southern lady knight and he’s a lowly savage who doesn’t deserve her. No, he knows that already, and it wouldn’t upset him to hear it. It _would_ upset him if Davos said he didn’t stand a chance at making her happy.

But the old man only suckles his drink and mutters darkly. “No kidding.”

The two drink in silence for a few minutes until Davos speaks up. “She’s important to Lady Sansa and _she’s_ important to Jon.” _Ah, there it is._ “Take care with her.”

“You think I wouldn’t? We treat our women better than you southerners do.”

Davos doesn’t ask for clarification, only holds up his hands. “All I’m saying is, don’t give Jon a reason to reconsider keeping you around.”

“He’s a good man,” is all Tormund says in response, unbothered by the doubt the old man was trying to place in his head. Davos may be Jon’s advisor but Tormund knew his place with him, too, and it was not one of little importance.

_Speaking of Jon…_

Tormund gulps from his horn until the liquid is trickling into his beard. “I’m going to ask you a question.” He takes Davos’s silence as consent. “Is it you kneelers’ way to want your sisters?”

Beside him Davos coughs. _“What?”_

“To want them, to fuck them, to wed them. Is that the way between brothers and sisters down here?”

 _“No!_ What gave you that idea?” Davos sputters. “Well there were the Targaryens, they wed brothers and sisters, but they were frowned upon…”

“Hm,” is all Tormund says in response, thinking.

* * *

 

Jon startles awake, rubbing his cheek where it had sunk into the hard wood of the chair. As his eyes adjust the weak light of the fire illuminates a mass of auburn red and black in the chair beside him.

He and Sansa must have fallen asleep in their chairs before the hearth in her bedchamber, exhausted from the day's work. He rubs his eyes as he walks to her, lowering himself to his haunches to get a better look. She is folded up in a way that can't be comfortable, her head hanging forward, chin ghosting her chest. He hooks a finger under her chin and tilts her head back, dragging the sheet of hair back with it. She does not wake, but her eyelids flutter, the only change on her otherwise peaceful face. 

Carefully, he slips an arm behind her knees and works the other under her arms. With a huff he gathers her into his arms and walks her to the bed. 

“Jon,” she mutters. Her eyes are half open, closing again, and as he starts to lower her to the bed she speaks again. “Help.”

Fear seizes him. “What?”

“Help me... my dress.”

He is so relieved he can’t help but chuckle, until he considers what she’s asked him. He feels his face heat. “I’ll get you a handmaiden.”

Her eyes are already closed. Jon tucks her more securely into the bed so she isn't at risk of falling off the edge, then toes across the room and calls to the recognizable guard a few feet away. “Podrick.”

“My lord?”

“Sansa and I fell asleep by the fire. I’ve just woken up. Please fetch a handmaiden to help her prepare for bed.”

Minutes later Jon nods at a woman who shuffles past him into the bedchamber. Jon and Podrick stand side by side for a quiet, awkward moment. “I’ll escort her when she’s finished,” Jon explains. 

“There’s no need, my Lord. If you wish for her to have an escort, I’ll—”

A scream silences him.

Jon is already pushing into the chamber, a dull roar in his ears. He is at Hardhome, he is on the fields outside Winterfell, he is on the blood soaked soil of Castle Black—

He is in Sansa’s bedchamber. His eyes find her first. She stands half dressed, a light shift covering her shoulders and chest, her dress peeled away, hanging half undone at her hips. Her mouth is open. Tears stream down her face. A dagger is clenched in her hand.

The handmaiden is on her back, crawling away from Sansa, and it was she who screamed. She is saying something now, but Jon can’t hear her. He grabs Podrick’s arm and meets his eyes, hisses, “Get her out of here. Take care of her. No one hears of this.”

Podrick is throwing concerned glances at Sansa, but he gulps audibly and nods at Jon. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Good man.” He pats Podrick on the back and takes a tentative step towards Sansa. He doesn’t see the two leave— he only has eyes for Sansa— but he hears the door close.

“Sansa...” He holds his hands up with his palms forward, wary of frightening her. “You’re alright. Are you alright?”

Her chin starts to tremble. Her voice is like a frightened child’s. “Who was that, Jon?”

“A handmaiden. She was preparing you for bed. Did she hurt you?”

“She _touched_ me.” Her voice breaks. “I was asleep and then I was awake and someone was _pulling my clothes off my body_ — _”_

A sob breaks off her words. The sound, her words and their meaning, gut him but he cannot tear his gaze from the dagger in her hand. It sways dangerously in her loosening grasp.

“Sansa. I’m here. She’s gone.” In his growing panic he suddenly can’t find the words he needs. “Sansa, please give me the knife. I can’t— I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

She looks at him with an inscrutable gaze, and he wonders if she understands him.

“I… I won’t hurt you.” Perhaps she is afraid to be defenseless with him. Perhaps she is frightened of him, after all. He wouldn’t blame her. “Put it on the ground, please. Can you do that?”

When she finally obeys, the breath rushes back into his body with such an intensity he is suddenly gasping. He fights to control himself. It is she who gets to fall apart now, not him. He needs to be strong.

“What’s wrong?” She blinks at him, awareness flooding her gaze. “Your chest—are you—?”

“I’m fine.” She will not worry about him now, it wouldn’t be fair. Yet a part of him can’t help but register the sweetness of her concern—even now she is capable of it. He is unused to such attentions.

“Sansa, I’m sorry I brought the handmaiden. I—”

 _“You_ brought her?”

Her gaze burns with accusation, and although he understands why she reacted the way she did, he doesn’t understand how he was supposed to anticipate it. “You were half asleep, you asked me to help you—undress. I thought I did the right thing.”

Her cheeks are suddenly so pink, and she wraps her arms around herself as if just noticing that she stands half-dressed before him. Jon swallows, trying not to notice it himself.

“I—said that? What else did I say?”

A beat. “Nothing,” Jon says, breathless.

“It was my fault, then,” Sansa says in a clipped tone, deeming the matter closed as a prim and proper Septa would.

His chest aches. “No, Sansa. It wasn’t.”

“I…” She heaves a sigh. “Jon, I won’t be using any handmaidens. No one gets to—no one can…”

She stands, forlorn in the middle of the chamber, wrestling with words in her mind. “I understand,” Jon says, wishing he was better with words himself.  

“If something like that happens again, just let me sleep in my clothes.”

“Alright.”

“Promise,” she demands, hot.

“Sansa, I won’t let anyone touch you.” He rakes a breath through his nose to ease the rage that creeps up on him at the unwelcome thought of Ramsay. “Now I know that includes handmaidens. _No one._ I promise.”

“You can,” she breathes, too fast, then presses a hand over her mouth.

His heart stutters to a stop. Two small words—but he imagined them, surely he has.

Her wide eyes meet his. “I only meant… You don’t frighten me.”

Tears fill his eyes, astonishing him. This feels like a gift, one he doesn’t deserve.

“You don’t know what that means to me.” His voice is gruff. “Thank you.”

Sansa nods. She lowers herself to the bed, her dress sprawled around her lap like the petals of a flower. Jon understands she means to be left alone. At the door, he cannot help a glance back at her, sitting at the very edge of her bed, hands lifted to her mouth, staring at the wall.

“Will you be alright?”

“Yes.”

One more look at her, frozen like ivory. That night sleep doesn’t come. He lies awake with worry for her, an undercurrent of something darker beneath it. He can’t help but feel he has already compromised her, already done something to not deserve her trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH! Omg braime shippers don't kill me please
> 
> Leave a comment!  
> visit [my tumblr](https://missfaber.tumblr.com) to see [graphics related to the chapters](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/186429504586/wolf-circle-north-chapter-9-fic-summary-sansa) and other... things


	10. and all this devotion was rushing out of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/186597445856/wolf-circle-north-chapter-10-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Never Let me Go", Florence and the Machine.

Sinking into the scalding bathwater, Jon can do nothing but sigh in relief. The heat is glorious to his sore muscles, until—he bares his teeth in a hiss when his shoulders start to descend beneath the surface. The wound, still caked in blood, burns.

Early that morning he visited the new settlement of the free folk. As soon as they arrived Sansa was off her horse, asking thoughtful questions, inquiring about the food, the furs, the firewood, and the weapons. Her eyes leapt over the camp whenever she wasn’t making notations on a scroll. Though Jon was preoccupied with his own tasks through the visit, his attention was never too far from her.

It was brighter under the open sky, and Sansa had shone under it, her auburn hair glinting in the light, her cheeks pink from riding. Jon watched as children flocked to her and asked to touch her hair. “Kissed by fire,” they said, and many a man and woman too. “Lucky girl,” others would say, and Sansa would look away, her smile not so genuine then. Some of the little ones dragged their red haired friends and parents to show off to Sansa, and Sansa would bend low and kiss the cheeks of the lucky child, or she would stand and smile indulgently with the equally put-upon adult, the two exchanging knowing looks.

The sword came late in the morning. If Jon hadn’t been attempting to speak to four of them at once he would have noticed the attack a moment earlier; as it was, the sword nicked his shoulder. By the time an enraged Tormund leapt to his defense Jon had dealt the same blow. The wildling man was on the ground, clutching his arm, yelling about knights. Both Davos and Tormund looked to him, waiting for the second blow, the death blow. But Jon sheathed Longclaw. He would not take an able bodied man’s life when the army of the dead was at their door.

Luckily, Sansa was gone by then, back to Winterfell with Brienne and a small retinue. As he struggles to dress without agitating his shoulder, he remembers her saying that she would make these trips to the free folk settlement a habit. His worry follows him out of the bath and into his office.

He is poring over ledgers when Davos knocks and enters. “There’s a matter I have to bring to your attention.”

His grim expression alarms Jon. “What? Out with it.”

“Your sister is receiving marriage offers.”

Jon’s mind suddenly blanks. He stares at Davos. “It’s been _six days.”_

Davos straightens his back as if steeling himself. “Lady Sansa is a beautiful young woman. She’s Ned and Catelyn Stark’s daughter and the Lady of Winterfell, one of the most advantageous matches any man in the seven kingdoms can make—”

Jon holds up a hand, and Davos—mercifully—stops.

“Key to the North,” Jon mutters darkly. “That’s what she told me they called her, those fuckers in King’s Landing. Littlefinger too. A _key_ to be bought and sold. And you would have me sell her?”

The threat in his voice would have any man drawing back, but Davos doesn’t. “No. But you should be informed.”

Jon forces himself to take a breath. Davos is only the messenger—he isn’t the one who deserves his anger. “Who?”

“Lord Tallhart, Lord Glenmore, Lord Blackwood, Lord Cerwyn—”

“Stop,” Jon orders, suddenly exhausted. He rakes a hand over his face. _“Cerwyn?_ He didn’t answer the call… Does he think he’s good enough to marry her?”

Davos doesn’t answer. Jon slumps back in his chair, his head aching. “Haven’t they been listening? The war is coming, and all they can think about is marriage…”

“Men don’t stop being men in times of war.”

Jon glares. His advisor and friend isn’t normally so offensive or obtuse. He curls his fist underneath the desk and reminds himself, again, that Davos isn’t the one who deserves his anger.

“Don’t mention this to me again.” Jon returns his attention to the ledgers before him, deeming the matter closed.  

“With all due respect, I’ll have to.”

Jon glares at his advisor, who continues. “I’ve spent some time with Lady Sansa the last few months. If there’s one thing I learned from her, it’s that turning a blind eye, as much as you may want to, can have consequences.”

Jon can’t help the small quirk of his lips. “‘Knowledge is power.’ That’s what she says.”

Then he thinks of her in her bedchamber the night before, a dagger in her hand, fear in her eyes, and the slight smile vanishes.

“Sansa will not marry.”

“She’s a highborn lady who—

“That wasn’t a request or an invitation to debate.” Now Jon is shouting. _“Sansa will not marry.”_  

Davos sighs. “I know she has suffered. But eventually she will marry, to carry on the Stark line.”

“Then she will only marry when it’s her choice,” he snaps, and the wound in his shoulder twinges. He winces.

“Have you seen the Maester for it yet?”

Still seething, Jon ignores Davos’s concern and his probing look. “I’m fine.”

“Lady Sansa won’t like that,” Davos says before leaving the room, and Jon swears he glimpses a smirk on the older man’s face. He settles back in his chair and rubs his good hand over his face. Davos is right.

* * *

 

Though it is barely evening Sansa cannot keep from raising her hand to her mouth to stifle her yawns. It was a hard day, from the early morning ride to the free folk settlement to the hours in the infirmary assisting the maester. The settlement was not far outside Winterfell’s walls; Brienne had assured her beforehand that the ride wasn’t long, but that if she wanted to walk then she would accompany her. But Sansa didn’t want to draw attention to herself as the only person of the party who didn’t ride out.

Riding put a strain on Sansa’s body, pulling old wounds open and bringing the pain anew. They were the wounds on her back and her thighs and the backs of her legs, places she couldn’t easily reach; wounds that had never been treated properly after the frenzy that was her escape from Winterfell. All day she felt the acute pain and the stings, consequences of the ride. Bending for minutes at a time to painstakingly stitch a wound together was no easier on her and now she aches everywhere. _I won’t see a maester,_ though one stands before her, a man she almost trusts.

No, she _does_ trust him. Maester Wolkan had agreed without question when she asked him to allow her to review all the ravens that came into Winterfell, even if they weren’t meant for her eyes. She would not have asked if she did not trust him, and he had earned that trust. _But not with my body. Not yet, not anyone, maybe not ever._

“My lord, come with me to a more private chamber.” The gravity in Maester Wolkan’s low tone causes Sansa to still her hand and look up from her work. She catches the back of him, a silhouette she’d know anywhere, that characteristic bun.

As soon as she has a free moment Sansa follows the path they took. From behind a closed door Sansa hears low tones. After a moment of indecision, she presses her ear to the door. The words don’t become discernable but she thinks she recognizes the low brogue of Jon’s voice. _What could he want with the Maester?_ Worry eats at her and she knocks before she can change her mind.

Maester Wolkan cracks the door open, hiding the room from her eyes. “Can I help you with anything, my lady?”

“Is Jon with you?”

Before he can answer Jon himself calls from behind him. “Come in, Sansa.”

Maester Wolkan opens the door wide enough for Sansa to step in. She raises her eyes to where Jon sits and barely stifles a gasp.

His cloak and doublet lay discarded beside him. He wears only a tunic unlaced so that it hangs on him strangely, covering most of his chest and one shoulder but exposing the other, which is red with a wound. She raises her eyes, finding his already on her, waiting.

“You’re hurt,” she whispers, though there’s no need for it.

“A scratch.”

His eyes are kinder now, bunching a bit in the corners in a way she’s come to appreciate as much as a smile.

Sansa takes a hesitant step towards him, eyes falling again to his shoulder. She has seen a thousand wounds, yet she cannot approach this one. She’s aware of the Maester looking at her but she can’t do anything differently. She can’t don a mask or pretend, not with Jon sitting there bleeding.

She meets his eyes once more and finds her voice. “You’re alright?”

“I promise I am,” he says, and she relaxes, because Jon doesn’t make promises lightly.

Maester Wolkan moves between them and resumes his cleaning of the wound but Jon doesn’t move his eyes from her. Sansa wants to ask him how he incurred it but isn’t sure if she should until they’re alone. _Patience._ She follows the movement of the maester’s hands to distract herself but it is far from soothing. She’d think she was desensitized to blood but seeing Jon’s darken the white rags makes her avert her eyes sharply.

But the rest of Jon’s exposed skin is far from unmarred. The edge of a scar so deep and dark it looks black disappears into his tunic. With a jolt she realizes he is wearing the tunic because he hides his scars too. Sansa remembers the betrayal he suffered and anger rises in her chest. Fear too, fear for him, fear of everyone in this castle and outside it who would seek to hurt him again.

There is nowhere else to look besides Jon’s eyes. It’s clear he means to reassure her. His face betrays nothing as Maester Wolkan works, not even a flinch from the pain, and Sansa wonders what her own face reveals.

 _Keep it together._ Much worse is still to come. The war against death itself is coming, and Jon would be in the middle—in the front—wherever the danger is paramount, that’s where he will be, because that’s Jon. She wraps her arms around herself, wincing, thoughts of Jon’s body limp as a rag doll—

“Sansa!”

Jon’s sharp use of her name brings her back to the room. _He’s alright,_ she tells herself, staring at him to absorb the truth of it. He isn’t fighting the Night King, he isn’t dead.

_Not yet._

“Bring her a chair,” Jon says, and Maester Wolkan quickly obeys, as she feels a chair poking the backs of her knees a moment later.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she sinks into it. She presses a palm to her forehead and finds it hot. “I just feel a bit faint. I haven’t eaten.”

Jon doesn’t look pleased at that, nor reassured. “Are you ill? Would you like the maester to—”

 _“No.”_ Sansa inhales and softens her voice. “You’re the one who’s injured, Jon, you need his attentions more than I.”

Sansa jumps to her feet before either man can object. “I’ll retire early. I’m sure some food and sleep will set me right.”

She sweeps from the room with her heartbeat ringing in her ears. The plans she has been making return to the forefront of her mind. Sansa clicks her jaw, deciding. She cannot waste any more time. _We have so many enemies now._ That’s what Jon said before he pressed his lips to her forehead. She ignores the fluttering in her stomach at the memory and focuses on his words. He was right, and any one of those enemies could take him. _I’ll protect him—_ she makes her own vow, mirroring his to her, though he does not hear it.                                                                               

* * *

 

Podrick was the one to find her supping alone in her chambers. “Lady Sansa would like to speak you before you retire.”

Brienne stood and spoke around the food still in her mouth. “Is it urgent?”

Podrick cracked one of his grins. “No. You can finish your meal, my lady.”

“Stop that,” Brienne admonished, not knowing what exactly she was reprimanding him for, but Podrick understood. This was just their way. A moment later the squire had taken the offered seat beside her and joined her in eating.

After the meal was through and Podrick departed to his own chambers, Brienne moves through the keep’s halls to the lord’s—no, the _lady’s_ chambers.

A low rumbling sound, like an animal’s growls, can be heard even from here. Brienne quickens her step, turning the corner in a matter of seconds. At the end of the hall she sees Jon’s white direwolf, though he is more Sansa’s than Jon’s now, the way he trails after her and sleeps in her bed. His teeth are bared, his throat rumbling in warning, red eyes are trained on a man who stands hesitantly outside. _Excellent wolf, you are._

Littlefinger starts to walk away the moment he sees her, but Brienne won’t have that.

 _Pardon me, my lord,”_ she all but yells at him. “Can I have a word?”

His back is still to her and he doesn’t respond, but after a moment he stops his walk. He is a clever man and knew she would not let him walk away.

Brienne stops beside the wolf and looks at the chamber door, wondering if Sansa was within. The wolf’s presence here strongly suggested she was, and that made Littlefinger’s presence even more alarming.  “Why are you here?”

“For the same reason you are, I suspect.” He turns slowly and inclines his head, that small smile on his mouth making his face look even more rat-like. “My lady.”

Brienne places a hand on the hilt of her sword. She never was known for being subtle. “I’m here to protect Sansa. I doubt that’s your intention.”

His smile doesn’t budge but he arches a brow. “I can’t wield a sword with much skill, but I’ve protected her much longer than you.”

“Where were you when the Bolton bastard had her?” She doesn’t mention the fact that it was by his hand that Sansa ended up with Bolton in the first place. She doesn’t need to. The anger in Littlefinger’s eyes and his lack of response thus far made it an unnecessary addition.

“Why are you here?”

“I have business with Lady—”

“Here in Winterfell.” Brienne takes no small satisfaction in the way Littlefinger’s mouth snaps shut. “You are Lord Protector of the Vale. You should be in the Vale.”

Littlefinger’s mouth curls. “Does your lady know you’re speaking to me this way? She’s all but begged me to stay. I don’t think she’d appreciate you going against her wishes.”

“That doesn’t change this.” Brienne pulls on her sword so that several inches of the stunning Valyrian steel show. “Stay away from her.”

Littlefinger’s eyes drop to her blade for a second, just a second, not nearly long enough. “I know what you think of me,” he drawls. “Brothelkeeper, Master of Coin… a grubby man who takes what he can get without discernment. But that man is dead.”

Brienne pushes her sword into its scabbard and turns to enter Sansa’s chamber before glancing at Baelish over her shoulder. “I don’t think of you at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's important to me that you all know (for literally no reason at all) that Lord Glenmore (who is an OC, kinda) is [Salt and Pepper Hottie](https://ibb.co/Xz5vqR6) from season 8. I love him and he's got a little role in this fic. A lot is being set up..  
> Also do you appreciate the irony as much as I do of Jon thinking he is quoting Sansa when he is actually quoting Littlefinger? Hahaha  
> Leave a comment!


	11. coming for the cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/186897334846/wolf-circle-north-chapter-11-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Only" RY X.

It takes Arya six days to get out far enough away from The Twins that little orphan girls don’t come up to her, lost and crying.

The first time it happened she was so stunned that she wanted to hit something—anything, _anything,_ except of course the little girl with the tear stained cheeks in front of her, the girl who had with a few words destroyed all of Arya’s hard-won victory.

“My father’s gone, he didn’ come home,” she sobbed, clutching Arya’s trousers so that she couldn’t run away. Not that Arya wanted to, yet. She was concerned for the girl, who couldn’t have been older than five. She had little teeth missing, like Arya did when she left Winterfell. This girl was younger than Rickon was then, and the thought made Arya’s stomach hurt.

“Who’s your father?”

The girl’s face twisted up like it hurt to think the name. _I know what that’s like._ Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “Arwood Frey.”

It had felt so good to kill the Freys. It felt so good that Arya had tasted it, in her mouth, and suddenly recalled that she had _loved_ the cinnamon hot cakes that would come out of the Winterfell kitchens. Old Nan would load them with so much spice that everyone but Arya would cough. It’s easy to forget those things when you’re no one—and nothing makes you feel like no one more than killing.

 _But that’s not true, is it?_ No, killing the Freys had tasted so good _because_ it was Arya Stark killing them. Arya Stark of Winterfell. She’d even said the words before she slit Walder Frey’s hideous throat. “The last thing you’re ever going to see is a Stark smiling down at you as you die.” Killing the Freys tasted like Arya Stark’s victory, her vindication, like the culmination of everything she’d suffered and bled for. It felt like she was telling all the Starks, but especially Mother and Robb, _here you go, I am doing this for you._ It felt like she was telling them she loved them.

And then this girl ruined it. And she was only the first.

She wanted to slap them, especially the older boys who could take it, they _really_ tempted her, and she thinks she might have done it if she didn’t already know her mouth would taste like ash afterwards. She wanted to hold them while they cried, and just scream and scream and scream until her throat stopped working. She wanted to yell at them and shake them and tell them this was just how the world worked. Your parents killed other people’s parents, or else they got killed by other people’s parents, and then you grew up to hate whoever killed your parents, or whoever they killed, and on and on the cycle kept going. That they better harden up and learn how to hold a sword, because that’s just the way the world worked.

But Arya didn’t do any of those things. She only tried to avoid them. They made her sick.

Now that a whole day’s passed without a single confused orphaned child stumbling into her way, Arya can breathe easier. On the second day she feels much better, and her stomach holds down the food she cooks over the fire. When Arya says the names as she lays down to sleep, she feels like herself again.

 _The North remembers._ That’s what she told Walder Frey’s wife, who looked to be about her age—that makes her grimace, and she relishes killing him all over again. Arya is all that’s left of the North. Bran and Rickon are dead or not dead.  Theon Greyjoy had killed them or not killed them. Jon is dead or not dead—he is at the Wall, anyway, and if he didn’t forsake his vows when they took Father’s head or stabbed Robb’s chest, he never would. He would die there.

Arya’s face twists, just like that little orphan girl’s. It hurts to think of Jon. It hurts to remember him and love him, to imagine him alive but so far away, so disconnected from everything that’s happened.

The last is Sansa, and she’s no different—dead or not dead—though her story is the most confusing. The scraps of news—it was generous to call them news, it was more like gossip—that Arya heard of Sansa were so wild and disconnected that she disregarded them all as fables. Sansa was a Lannister but not Joffrey’s Lannister, Sansa was a Tyrell, Sansa was lost at sea on a ship to Dorne, Sansa was a murderess who used poison instead of blades, Sansa was a girl who wore wolf’s skin at night. That last made her laugh. _Wolf girl._ That’s Arya, not Sansa. Arya’s all that’s left of the North, and she’ll make sure everyone remembers.  

The horse she stole is a good one, strong and fast, and Arya thinks he’ll be able to get her to King’s Landing without any problems at all.

* * *

The queen sits in her preferred chair in his laboratory. Between them on the table is a litter of raven scrolls and a few maps—more for his benefit than hers. Despite the years Qyburn spent at the citadel, he has found that her knowledge of Westeros’s geography is better than his. They are accustomed to having their private conversations here, the Queen and her Hand—and although it is where he is most comfortable, it was she who insisted on confining their delicate conversations to this chamber. He suspects it’s because she knows almost everyone in the Red Keep avoids it by a wide berth. But the queen always looks comfortable in the place that frightens everyone else—though she never drinks wine in here.

“Is there anything else?”

 There is much weighing on her mind, Qyburn can tell, but the news must be delivered. The queen trusts him to always tell her the truth, to never underestimate her.

“Daenerys Targaryen is sailing to Westeros.”

The queen keeps her emotion—shock, dismay, disgust, Qyburn can only guess—under control. Her face reveals nothing, but the tightening of her jaw and the slight curl of her lip.

“How?”

“The Iron Fleet, your grace. Euron Greyjoy has allied with Daenerys and brought her to Westeros.”

“Traitor,” she snaps. “The Greyjoys are nothing but traitors. We have allowed them to live in Westeros too long. They should have perished long ago.”

“I don’t doubt it, your grace.”

“Her armies?”

“The Unsullied and the Dothraki… combined… some twenty thousand strong. And the three dragons.”

The Queen’s hand curls into a fist on the table. “Are they indestructible?”

Qyburn sneers. “No one is.”

“The dragons.”

“No.”

“Good,” she says, and Qyburn accepts the small token of appreciation. He has been working. “We are surrounded by enemies, Qyburn, and now a Targaryen could attack King’s Landing any day. We must fortify the city against her.”

Qyburn nods. He will give her answers to her questions. He will give her solutions to her problems. He always does.

* * *

_I killed the wrong one._

The glass shatters against the wall, and Cersei brushes her hands over her skirts, suddenly calm. She didn’t used to be prone to these private fits of violence, but ever since she screamed her throat raw in the High Septon’s filthy dungeons, she discovered the astounding relief that came with simply releasing… everything. It felt good.

As she studies the broken shards and bits of metalwork, she wonders if she had other outlets for her rage, before. No, she didn’t. She stifled it as women were supposed to do, ever the dutiful daughter. No longer. She is queen of the seven kingdoms and if Robert could have his whores, she could have her violence. Men are allowed their indulgences. So are queens.

 _Daenerys is sailing to Westeros._ It took a bit of self-control not to react then. It was the memory of Father’s words that calmed her, assured her, reminded her that it would be dealt with. “Dragons haven't won a war in three hundred years,” he’d said. “Armies win them all the time.”

Joff had fought, he’d been frightened of the dragons still. How ironic it was that he was right, her precious boy, who didn’t often exhibit wisdom but had unknowingly been wiser than any other on the small council that day.

_Until there comes another…_

Cersei shakes the hideous face and the hideous memory from her mind. Hasn’t it haunted her enough? Motivated her beyond reason? Calmly, Cersei walks to the looking glass.

_…younger and more beautiful…_

Her hair is curling past her chin. Soon it will brush her shoulders. Soon it will cascade down her back like liquid gold.

_… to cast you down and take all that you hold dear._

Her image wavers before her, as if she is trembling. She has unseated kings. She knows how easy it is. But they were violent and stupid, they were _men._ They ignored threats while she shrewdly perceives them, she _acts._ Margaery was not the queen from the prophecy but she had to die anyway, and the dragon bitch would soon follow. She remembers how good it felt to get her revenge on Septa Unella; this would feel even _better_.

“Fetch my brother,” she tells Ser Gregor. She would tell a servant but then Jaime might not come. Only Ser Gregor moves him now.

* * *

In all his years in King’s Landing Jaime has never known the city as intimately as he does now. In those times he’d had little reason to leave the Red Keep, as he always stayed close to the king, whatever king it was. He had no desire to leave it neither, as the city was putrid with heat and poverty. Now it is the oppressive walls of the Red Keep he cannot bear. Since his return he spends most of his days walking the city. He wears a light hooded cloak due to the growing chill but he doesn’t really need to. He is not recognizable, no longer a golden lion at all.

But Cersei has never been more of a Lannister. Every time he beholds her he feels a jolt, feeling the ghost of their father in the room. And yet—yet—that doesn’t feel right. Tywin was ruthless and unscrupulous too, but he understood the importance of keeping his hands clean. He understood the importance of allies, which is why he’d tolerated the Starks and the Tyrells, Aerys and then Robert and forced Jaime too as well. But Cersei doesn’t force herself to tolerate anyone anymore, and the result is unsurprising.

No allies. Not enough lords came to bend the knee. Travel takes time but that isn’t it, and Cersei is smart enough to know that, and she is frustrated. She thinks she is hiding it, but the servants whisper about the things she breaks. Or perhaps she _isn’t_ trying to hide it—that sounds more like Cersei, this Cersei that doesn’t hide or apologize for anything.

Or perhaps Jaime is wrong. Perhaps Cersei isn’t frustrated at all about the lords who don’t seem eager to bow to her, perhaps she hasn’t even noticed, as she spends so much of her time whispering with her Hand and disappearing into the dungeons for hours. He wants to see what they’re doing down there—he already knows it’s something they’re _doing,_ he knows it like he knows his own name—but he can’t bring himself to investigate. He already hates how much time he spends thinking about Cersei. But every time he sees her glittering black dress turn a corner, or catches a snippet of a low sentence uttered to Qyburn, she commandeers his thoughts for the rest of the day.

“News goes slowly to the north,” he hears her distinct voice as she passes outside his chamber door, which he didn’t bothered to close the night before when he was deeply drunk. His head still pounds but the word “north” jolts him awake. _Brienne._ He listens closely. “I don’t want him to have any information… let’s keep them guessing for a while. What have your birds…”

She fades away and Jaime tries to deduce the meaning of her words. He only heard her talking of the north a few other times, when she was seething about Ned Stark’s bastard killing their Bolton allies. He knows nothing else of the current state of the north; he doesn’t like to think about it. He can’t remember Sansa Stark’s face, not really, but he remembers her hair was a vivid copper red, and he remembers every detail of Brienne’s face when she left to find her.

 _And she did._ He remembers receiving the news in Riverrun, the way Brienne’s nostrils flared and every other part of her was still when she seethed, “I don’t think you _know_ many girls like her.” He hadn’t meant to insult her or doubt her when he said he hadn’t held out much hope for Sansa’s survival, only that it was the way the world worked, so he had softened with truth. _I’m proud of you._ It was one of the few times, perhaps the only time, he would speak truthfully in Riverrun. But they stood on opposite sides then, as they always seemed to do. “I’m a Lannister,” he’d all but yelled at her, when all she did was call him honorable. He chose Cersei again, and the images blur before his eyes—the Blackfish's straight back and Edmure covered in sweat and dirt, Brienne in that little boat, hand rising slowly… and when Cersei summons him he wonders if it was he who summoned her.

He follows the Mountain quietly to Cersei’s bedchamber. When she beholds him it is with a coldness he used to love in her, how it would entice him. Now her nose wrinkles and Jaime recognizes the disdain she held for Tyrion directed at him. He wonders if it’s because he is now the one who drowns his conscience in drink.

“Call our bannermen,” Cersei commands without preamble. “Prepare our armies to mobilize.”

 _Do we still have fucking bannermen?_ But he doesn’t say that. “Are we going somewhere?”  

That wasn’t right either; Cersei’s nostrils flare. “Daenerys Targaryen is sailing to Dragonstone, with three adult dragons, and an army twenty thousand strong.”

Jaime blinks. Aegon had bent Westeros to his will with one dragon— _one._ He tries to picture a dragon but can’t, can only picture Balerion the Dread’s skull, and when it roars its fire is emerald green.

“Euron Greyjoy brings her here. And do you know who else stands at her side? Who has _advised_ her and _helped_ her to our shores?”

Jaime closes his eyes, and his face must betray something, because Cersei chuckles, pleased. “That’s right. Our traitor brother who you love so much. Who killed our son and our father.”

“He didn’t kill Joffrey,” Jaime snaps—again, the wrong thing to say. He never knows the right thing.

Cersei’s face twitches with barely concealed rage. “How can you still defend him?”

Jaime looks at her. _Family’s what lives on. It’s all that lives on. Do you understand?_ “He’s our brother.”

“He’s no brother of mine. _Kinslayer,”_ she sneers. “Is it love or pity that moves you?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “How could you love a traitor?”

Jaime felt bare and vulnerable a moment before, but now he could laugh at the irony. “What’s treason? We’ve had more kings and queens in the last twenty years than I can count.”

“It’s treason when it’s directed at _us,”_ Cersei snaps. “If he’s a Lannister, if he’s your brother, his treason is even worse.”

Her words don’t affect him the way she clearly wants them to. Jaime shrugs. “I killed a king. You killed a queen. I hardly think we can hold our heads above Tyrion’s.”

Cersei laughs as if he’d meant to make the joke, which he _hadn’t,_ he only heard it when it was too far out of his mouth. She pats his hand as if they are aligned now. Jaime jerks his hand back. He realizes she didn’t deny killing Margaery this time.

“‘Two kingslayers,’” he mutters. “That’s what Walder Frey said to me. He said we were the same, he and I, cut from the same cloth… do you know what it’s like to have a man as vile as he look at you and say it’s like looking in a mirror? _Kingslayer,_ oathbreaker… but I knew why I did it. To save lives from death by wildfire.”

Cersei has stilled beside him. Jaime looks at his golden hand. The bright sunlight pouring in from the window creates a brief ripple of color, true blue as Brienne’s eyes, corn-yellow as her hair.

“You did what the mad king dreamt of. What I killed him for promising.”

 _Don’t say you didn’t._ If she objects or protests or corrects him or so much as shakes her head, he will leave the table and run, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop.

But when she does speak it is in a deathly whisper, so low it sends a chill down his back. “Don’t threaten me, Jaime.”

He didn’t. He _isn’t._ His mouth opens but it feels dry and it holds no words.

She pats his hand again, then lingers. It feels both familiar and unfamiliar, the soft skin of her hand on his. Jaime drags his gaze to hers. Her eyes are steady, lethal, and lovely, so lovely. “I don’t handle threats idly,” she promises, and it falls into place for him too; _it wasn’t a threat, it was a promise._

But still he says nothing. Despite the rush of clarity he is still woefully confused, paralyzed by the frustration of knowing how he _feels_ but having no idea how to act.

“Call our bannermen,” she orders again, but this time it’s a question too.

“You have my word,” Jaime finally speaks. _The word of a kingslayer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment!


	12. red whispers in the walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/187005552471/wolf-circle-north-chapter-12-fic-summary-sansa) asdfghjkjkd FUN FACT: the second scene in this chapter (Jon's POV scene) is the first scene I wrote for this fic, and I wrote it more than two years ago. I didn't think I'd ever write fic again so I just saved it for myself. It became a very long doc titled "Whisper Scenes" lol. Now here we are! It feels like such a milestone to be posting it, finally!!

Lyanna Mormont waits beyond the door Brienne is guarding. Sansa asks if she has been comfortable in her stay, and the little lady, predictably, holds up a hand to cut the small talk. 

"If you don't want people to know we're meeting, you should consider a different guard. Brienne of Tarth is hard to miss, and everyone knows she follows you. They only have to look for her to know where you are."

Sansa quirks a brow. "Why do you think we're meeting in secret? This is my office, it is the middle of the day."

"We see each other at least once a day, at meals, in meetings. If you wanted people to know what you're about to ask me, you would have done it then."

Sansa ducks her head, trying to hide a smile. She admires the little lady, her fierceness and her loyalty, and she's intelligent too— Sansa did not expect her to notice as much as she has. Half the time she wants to scoop her up and pretend it's Arya she's hugging. Of course, if she ever tried, she would probably lose both arms.

"Lady Mormont, you once called me Bolton and Lannister. Would you say the same today?"

Her response is swift and sure. "I would cut out my tongue before I called you anything but Stark, my lady."

Although she expected them, the words fill Sansa with pride. "Do you believe I act with our people's best interest in mind? Would you trust me to make decisions for the North?"

Her dark eyes watch Sansa without speaking for a full minute. "You saved my men in battle. You brought the knights of the Vale and won the North. I believe you would use others for the sake of the North. But not the other way around."

Sansa tries not to wince at that ugly word. _It's true, you do use people. Cersei Littlefinger Margaery_ —

"I have more use for your men, if you would give them to me, Lady Mormont. They would not be entering into battle or anything so noble, but it would be just as important, just as vital for the well-being of the North." 

Lyanna's eyes narrow. "Why my men?"

Her mouth quirks upwards. "They are each worth ten mainlanders."

If Lyanna is pleased, she doesn't show it. "How many would you need?"

"Ten."

"And would I be permitted to know what it is they're doing?"

Sansa shakes her head. "This is where I ask you to consider my earlier question. If you trust me to act with the North in mind."

Lyanna pinches her lips together. Then she leans forward. "When I told you Brienne of Tarth is too obvious a guard for someone trying to hide, I was trying to help. I trust you."

Sansa feels both commended and aggrieved; a common reaction to Lyanna's words, she supposes. "Hiding and secrecy are important, especially in what I do. But cleverness can only get you so far. Even the cleverest person can be taken down by blade." Sansa is aware of that, _very_ aware. "And that is why Brienne will always be my guard. Cleverness doesn't make you safe. Safety makes you safe."

"If you truly feel this way, perhaps you should consider learning to defend yourself." Lyanna gets to her feet, effectively ending the conversation. But she doesn't depart until Sansa has stood too. Lyanna bends her head in a deep bow. "You have your men."

* * *

 

Nine days after the wolf banners return to Winterfell, Jon hears it— the first hushed painful whispers about the red-haired lady of Winterfell. 

Jon is passing from his solar to the great hall when he hears two servants in congress. ".... her hair _shines_ again. Oh, she looks so much like her lady mother. How sad it was when..."

He stops, his ears straining. 

"... much better. Only five moons away from him, and I can tell. She looks a bit fuller. Healthy."

A murmur of assent. "She was skin and bones."

Another woman scoffs. "Like the starvation was the worst of it? My niece Chrystane washed her sheets. She said you could wring out the blood." 

He feels sick for the rest of the day, the churn of his stomach so threatening he doesn't dare eat a morsel of food. His face twists when he sees Sansa in the great hall— luckily she doesn’t notice him, and by the time she is alerted to his presence he has been able to school his expression into something he hopes is more neutral. 

But he can't keep it up for the rest of the day, the words ringing in his head. _You could wring out the blood._

Sansa's sheets. Sansa's blood.

In the evening he and Sansa sit in congress with the lords who intend to contribute men to the glass gardens project, and despite the conversations that grow more convoluted, Sansa raises an eyebrow at him, a question. She looks concerned, and he wonders how awful he must look, how plainly he wears his feelings on his face. When he doesn't, _can't_ meet her eyes for more than a second, let alone give her the reassuring nod meant to give, she waits a few diplomatic minutes until this particular vein of conversation runs its course, then excuses herself and pulls Jon aside.

"Are you alright?"

He makes himself look at her. "Aye."

"Jon."

He wants to ask, but he doesn't want to ask. He wants to ask because it's burning him not to know, to be left to his imagination. Yet he doesn't want to ask, because his imagination is better than the truth; and this is what rattles him the most. He knows Ramsay was a monster, a husband so cruel he drove Sansa to flee, had driven her to the desperation of jumping from the walls of Winterfell. But he never pictured sheets soaked in blood. He isn't creative enough, isn't cruel or smart enough, to picture that. 

And if he _knows_ , if she tells him, it will burn under his skin forever, because Ramsay is already dead. 

Regardless, he can't have this conversation with her in a room full of impatient northern lords.

"I didn't sleep much. I'm worried, over Arya and Bran." The lie comes easier than he thought it would. 

Sansa gives his hand a comforting squeeze along with a knowing look. "I have nightmares about them too," she says, before turning and addressing the lords, the lords who had allowed her tormentor to live in these halls, _he_ who had allowed her to remain here when a few days' ride would have saved her, and he wonders how this woman has so much strength. 

* * *

The base of the weirwood tree isn’t comfortable but Bran has spent so much time here it is almost warm. He sees so much now, he sees _everything_ now, and the memories which are not his flood his mind, confusing him. He touches a hand to the white bark, travelling, seeking.

When he is done watching, he returns to the world, finding his body shivering from the cold and from the unsteadiness of his breaths.

At the sound of crunching footsteps, he swipes at his cheeks with clammy hands. Whether it is Meera or Uncle Benjen returning, he does not want either of them to see him cry.

As soon as Meera comes into view she drops the small carcasses slung around her shoulders. “Rabbit for dinner,” Meera grins. “I wish I could say I got these, but I didn’t. Your uncle did.”

Bran returns her smile. “Where is he?”

She shrugs, and Bran does not pursue a further answer. Although Uncle Benjen spends most days and nights by their side, he would often disappear for hours without any warning before or any explanation after. He returns with new cuts and burns from each trip, and the occasional game that he would cook and they would all eat gratefully.

Meera joins him on the bed of furs he sits on, burrowing into his side. Even through her furs, she is ice cold from the hunt. Bran wraps an arm around her, wishing he could do more.

Comfortable minutes pass until Meera breaks the silence. “What did you see?”

Bran feels the lump in his throat grow. “I saw them throw Mother’s body in the river. I saw them put Grey Wind’s head on Robb’s body. Arya was there, on a horse, crying—”

Meera shifts so that she's holding him. The cradle of her arms around him, tight and solid and _real,_ silences him, but he is crying again.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” Meera’s admonishment is both gentle and frustrated. “Stop looking for it, stop _watching_ those awful things that happened to your family.”

His voice is raspy with tears, pain, and truth when he answers. “I seek them out because I don’t want to forget what Bran Stark cares about.”

Her hold tightens on him. Bran’s arms circle her back and clutch at her with a similar desperation.

“Is it really so frightening?”

Bran barely keeps a shudder from wracking his body—she would feel it, and he doesn’t want to alarm her. “I see so much now. I have to remember which memories are mine… Meera, I don’t—I can’t—lose myself.”

When she pulls away, much too soon, Bran sees tracks of tears cutting through the light layer of dirt on her face. “You can look at other things to remember what it means to be Bran Stark. Happy moments from your childhood.” She bites her lip. “It may not be as strong, but I won’t let you torture yourself.”

Bran knows she is right, and he understands her intention. He doesn’t tell her that watching those happy memories is painful, too. To watch himself climb towers and walls, able to walk and run and chase. To see Arya beat him at archery, to see Sansa singing songs to herself sweetly in the halls, to witness his parents’ love and trust in each other. To see— _Rickon—_

“You’re right,” he tells her, a trembling smile curving his lips. “That’s a good idea.”

By the time night starts to descend, the rabbits are cooked. Meera makes a brave but obvious attempt to distract him with lighthearted and meaningless conversation. But there is nothing lighthearted in the world, and there never has been—he can see it _all—_

“Jon and Sansa are in Winterfell,” he tells her suddenly. He avoided looking for his living siblings for as long as he could, terrified of what suffering he would find, knowing he could do nothing to help them. He was pleasantly surprised to find Jon and Sansa together and _home._ He was shocked to watch Arya exterminate the Freys.

Then he had entered a black hole of curiosity, watching everything his siblings had endured. When he surfaced, weak and dismayed, Meera told him he was gone for two days.

“They’re home? Are they safe?”

Bran thinks of Littlefinger, of everything he has seen of the man, of the web of danger he is spinning around them. He wishes he could be in Winterfell now, to warn them.

“No one is safe.”

Meera nods. “I wish we could go to Winterfell. We’re so close.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Bran nods. He had known it in the Three-Eyed-Raven’s cave, heard it from Uncle Benjen’s mouth, and seen it in his own mind.

“I can’t cross The Wall. There’s magic inside it that keeps the Night King and his army trapped here. With his mark on me, if I cross, the Night King will be able to follow.”

Meera gives him a wan but true smile. “You’re a hero, Brandon Stark.”

An unexpected pleasure shoots through his chest. He smiles as she looks at her, twisting the last bit of meat off the rabbit. _She’s_ the true hero—a lord’s daughter who didn’t have to be involved in this at all. She didn’t have to risk freezing off her fingers and toes. She had sacrificed and lost so much to help him.

“I can’t cross,” he says it before a lesser part of him can stop himself. “But you can.”

Meera stares at him.

“You can return to your father. I have Uncle Benjen. He’ll protect me.”

He and Uncle Benjen were cursed, but she wasn’t—she was a pretty girl with a bright future who had no business wasting away beside him.

“I’m not leaving you,” Meera says, her voice a bit hoarse. Bran bites back a smile. He doesn’t say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do NOT acknowledge robot Bran Stark... clearly  
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	13. clinging to the ruin of your broken home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/187261535151/wolf-circle-north-chapter-13-fic-summary) Chapter title from "Someone to Stay" Vancouver Sleep Clinic. 
> 
> For graphics related to each chapter and other things, check out [my tumblr.](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/tagged/wolf-circle-north)

When the day of the feast comes, Sansa has put all her newly acquired men to good use.

She spends every moment she can in the days prior dedicated to her plans, to fortifying Winterfell in ways that don't involve war or walking dead men or food. She defends Winterfell against whispers and shadows that pinch in the dark.  

Whereas beforehand Podrick was the only one watching the ravens— a task that, combined with being her personal guard, exhausted him— now there were two more men that ensured word didn't go out of Winterfell without Sansa knowing its contents.

When Jon hands her a piece of parchment one afternoon and she sees the red welt dominating the back of his hand, she gasps louder than she intended, her eyes jumping to his. He is quick to soothe her with warm eyes and reassurances but not an explanation, and she doesn't relent until he provides one, his shoulders slumping forward in surrender. “There was a fight.”

“The free folk and the knights?”

His eyes narrow at her. “You know about that?”

Sansa has to keep herself from rolling her eyes. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, I would be remiss if I didn’t know about it.” Her eyes drop to the broken skin on his hand. “Why didn't _you_ tell me?”

When his shoulders slump and he admits, “I didn’t want to add to your troubles, you already deal with enough,” she believes him. 

“It makes sense,” she says, starting to pace. “Tempers are running high. Differences are making themselves known, now that the adrenaline of the battle has faded and the threat of a dead army doesn't yet feel real.”

Jon nods. “I have to find some way to manage them.”

“I’ll try to—”

“Sansa.” He interrupts her with a stern look he has taken to using quite often with her. She isn’t sure how she feels about that. “ _I_ will take care of it. You’re doing too much already.”

Though an argument is on the tip of her tongue, she relents, deciding to let this go for now. He’s not wrong.

Late that night, she gives Maester Wolkan a carefully crafted list of poisons she has agonized over for days. “Find the antidotes,” she instructs him, before marching five men and women before him. "Train them in simple healing so that they can take over the wounded, and you can do your research."

Although the Maester’s threshold is quite high, he sputters out a protest. “My lady, this is unheard of. These people haven’t passed through the Citadel. I can’t—”

“Maester Wolkan, these are unprecedented times. White walkers haven’t threatened us in thousands of years. I daresay the Citadel’s rules don’t matter much in that regard.”

“I see your point, my lady. But—”

“I prioritize the lives of my people over anything else. As a maester, you value life as much as I do.” 

 He nods slowly. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Thank you. There is a man named Samwell Tarly at the Citadel you can write to if you need access to the Citadel’s information.” She looks at the men and women who are already touching the Maester’s tools and books. They are Northerners from Wintertown who answered with unabashed eagerness when she sent Davos to collect people interested in healing. These are curious people who were brave enough to leap into an unfamiliar situation, will now have the ability to save lives. Looking at them makes her swell with pride, swell with love for the north. 

There is a twinkle in her eye when she says, “I’ll bring more when I can.”

* * *

 

When Jon emerges from the bath he sees something on the bed he didn't notice on his way into his bedchamber. As he dries himself he walks closer, the pile of fabric turning into something distinct. He picks up the tunic, black-blue as the night sky, intricate silver thread crawling up the sleeves. 

“Direwolves,” he murmurs as brings it closer to his face, so close the thick fabric brushes his nose. A lump forms in his throat. As if she hasn't given him enough already.

His chest, his shoulders, his very skin seems to swell with pride as he slips the layers over his skin. When he clasps the doublet over his chest— another one of Sansa’s creations, dark leather with shoulders covered in a light layer of gray fur— he wonders if she knows how much she's giving him, as she cloaks him in Stark sigils made by her Stark hands. 

The walk to her bedchamber is shorter than it’s ever been. When he greets Brienne he can’t help the smile on his face. “I will escort lady Sansa to the feast.”

“One moment.” Brienne opens the door and disappears behind it, emerging a moment later with a nod of assent. “My lord. I will see you at the feast.”

Sansa is sitting with her back to him in front of a small looking glass, her quick fingers moving through her elaborately styled hair. A black cloak obscures her form. She is smiling as she talks. “I had to send her away. She wouldn’t have changed for the feast otherwise, and she might have been in those clothes for days.”

Jon watches her expression change in the mirror, her smile falling and her eyes lowering. “She never rests.”

“She wants to do right by you.”

“Well, it should be different from here on out. I’ve secured some guards to help relieve her. She has other things she wants to do, you know. She wants to help with your training efforts, Jon. She would be very useful.”

“I’m sure she will. These new guards...” He trails off, unsure of how to phrase it. _Do you trust them?_ But she told him she didn't trust anyone the way she did Brienne.

“Brienne will stay close. But she needs rest if she is to be at her best.” Sansa meets his eyes in the mirror. “You look handsome.”

His heart stutters, the words taking him completely by surprise. He looks down at himself as if he didn’t just spend minutes staring at his reflection before leaving his bedchamber. “Thanks to you,” he says, a bit too gruffly, waiting a moment before he can trust himself to meet her eyes. “When did you have time to make this?”

She waves a hand dismissively, and he holds back a sigh. He knows she doesn’t have time in the day. They are both drowning in new responsibilities, and Sansa takes on more than she needs to. He wonders if she sleeps at all. _You could wring out the blood_ — the words jerk into his mind, threatening to steal his breath. Does she spend her nights sewing by candlelight because it is preferable to nightmares?

“Are you sleeping well?”

Her brow furrows, as if surprised by the question, and he supposes it doesn't make much sense. “I sleep well enough.”

Jon takes a step forward, wanting to wipe that dejected and confused expression from her face. “I love the clothes, Sansa. They’re....” He swallows. “Well made. One of your many talents.”

Her lips quirk up. “You remind me of Septa Mordane. She... she saved my life. Did I ever tell you that?”

Jon’s throat is blocked. He thought he knew about Sansa’s years away from home, but keeps discovering he knows so little; and here is another sliver of terrifying information. “No.”

Sansa lays her hands down on the table in front of her. “I was awful to her.”

“I doubt that. She always praised your sewing and your manners. She seemed very happy with you. A proper lady, even when you were a girl.”

Her mouth twists and Jon sees a sliver of regret and self-loathing. “A stupid girl who didn't know anything.”

He is quick to correct her, quick to move so that he’s standing by the table, his back to the wall so he can look down at her. “A girl who saw good everywhere. There’s nothing wrong with that. I wish...” _I wish you could have stayed that way._ Even if it meant they would never be standing in this room together, even if it meant he would stay her least-loved brother, because then Sansa would not have suffered.

“She would be proud of the woman you are,” he finally says. 

“I hope so…” Her tone is worrisome to Jon, but then she’s getting to her feet, and he extends a hand to help her move from behind the bench. Sansa shrugs off her cloak.

Underneath is a dress of dove gray with twin direwolves on her ribs. The direwolves’ bodies curl around hers until their tails intertwine on the small of her back.

He stares, mesmerized. The dress shimmers slightly where the light hits, and Jon doesn't know enough about cloth and needle to understand how, so he contents himself to think it is just her, for her skin is glowing too. 

He doesn't think he has ever seen her in such a light color since she was a child, and it makes him smile wistfully. The dress is still fitting for winter, with a high collar and no skin exposed but that of her face and hands. Yet she seems exposed, _he_ feels exposed, because she has matched them. He in his dark blue with silver thread, she in her dove gray with midnight thread. 

Dragging his gaze back to her face, he is embarrassed to find a small curving her mouth and a knowing look in her eyes, as if she knows what he is thinking. But she can’t know, or her lip would be curling in disgust. _I’m not thinking anything disgusting,_ he reproaches himself. She is beautiful, that’s all. And she _must_ know it, a woman as intelligent as she. 

He realizes her hand is still resting in his. Acting on instinct alone, he pulls it to his lips, pressing the barest of kisses to her knuckles. “You look every bit the Lady of Winterfell.”

Her eyes are more black than blue when he looks up at her, still not having released her hand. She trails her fingers up his forearm and rests at the juncture of his elbow, leaving a shiver in her wake. Wordlessly, they leave the room, and Jon escorts her to the great hall.

A hush falls over the assembled group. A hundred pairs of eyes follow them as Jon leads Sansa through the long tables to the one at the head, the place he had never been allowed to sit before. Ears burning, Jon pulls out Lord Eddard Stark’s chair and waits for her to take her place.

The silence does not allow them to speak without being overhead, but Sansa’s eyes blow open in protest. She gives him a pointed look, hesitating in front of the chair. Jon stares resolutely ahead as if he cannot see.

He hears the smallest of sighs escape her lips before she gives the assembly a generous smile. He waits for her to lower herself into the chair before taking his own seat at her side.

A round of servants weave their way through the tables with pitchers of ale and skins of wine. The conversation begins and stilts before starting again, the pattern repeating itself for a few uncomfortable minutes until Sansa whispers, “You should say something.”

He is perfectly capable, but he looks into her eyes for confirmation anyway. _Are you sure?_

When she nods he stands. Total silence overcomes the hall once more.

“Tonight is a night for celebration. The battle is won!” A cheer bursts from the hall. “The North is out of Bolton hands because we all worked together. To our victory!”

Jon raises his tankard of ale and by the time he has returned to his seat, uproarious laughter can be heard. He looks to Sansa and finds her smiling.

By the time the second course has been served, Jon has been whisked from table to table and is now barely standing by the free folk. His throat stills burns from the suspicious milky substance Tormund forced him to drink. He guzzles tepid water and tries to focus on the wildling woman who is talking to him. 

“These people don't like us. Not the stiff lords, not the shiny knights.”

The woman is loud and several knights turn to sneer at her, perhaps her intention. 

“The battle would have been lost without the Knights of the Vale, every free man and woman slaughtered.” Jon makes a point of speaking just as loudly as she. His eyes flick to where Sansa sits at the head of the room, Lord Royce by her side now, their expressions serious as they converse. “They saved you.”

“And didn’t we save _you,_ King Crow?” The woman’s gaze burns holes into him. “We were the first ones to pledge in this fight, two thousand wildlings for your castle.”

“We didn’t fight for him, and we didn’t fight for _this_.” Tormund, now at Jon’s shoulder, gesturing at the great hall around them. “We fought because the freak who held this castle was coming north to slaughter us all.”

If Tormund's words affect her she doesn't show it. “We _did_ fight for him.” She shoves Tormund with a hard hand when he starts to protest. “But we can disagree. We should leave here, Tormund. Our people should go south.”

“The Night King is coming,” Jon says. “Your people know that better than anyone.”

“Mance Rayder knew it, and he wanted us to go south.”

“Mance is dead.” Jon doesn’t try to keep the irritation from his voice. “And everyone here in Winterfell, everyone _everywhere_ will be too if we don't defeat the Night King. The only way to do that is together.”

“Tell that to your knights.” She pushes past Tormund for a drink before walking away.

“Vrewa isn’t the only one. They’re unhappy.” Tormund sighs as he sinks onto a chair beside him. “The fights aren’t stopping.”

Jon knows of this, having tempered a few of the worst ones himself.  But there are bigger issues at hand. “We’ll manage.”

By the time Jon rejoins Sansa at the head table the room has slipped into a new stage of drunkenness and relaxation. The stiff lines between lords, soldiers, free folk, knights, and servants have blurred just the slightest bit, if only to allow people to share drinks or flirtatious whispers. The doors have been swung open as people filter in and out. 

Sansa gives him a smile as he takes his seat, a genuine smile that touches her eyes. Then she says, “This was a success. They’re happy.”

Jon notices her crystal eyes, her posture straight as ever. She hasn’t had a drink, then—he wonders if she spoke to anyone tonight on anything outside the well-being of Winterfell.

“And you?” When she doesn’t answer, he adds, “Everything doesn’t have to be political.”

The smile does not drop completely from her face, but it trembles slightly in a way that makes him regret his words. “But that’s the way it is.”

He sighs. “I meant, I wish you’d enjoy yourself.”

When she doesn't answer, Jon pours himself another ale. After finishing most of it in two gulps, he is able to look at her again. She is staring resolutely ahead, her face inscrutable. He has never been good at reading her and is even worse at it when he’s drunk, but he notices her hands are held together so tightly in her lap it must hurt. He follows her gaze to where Littlefinger sits, alone. 

“Don’t.”

He is _drunk_ , or he wouldn’t have said that. Now her gaze is turned to him, open in mild surprise. “He’s a man who must be managed.” She smiles tightly. “I know what you’re thinking. It won’t be like that night. I haven’t had anything to drink. And I won’t again.”

His chest hurts. “You should be able to if you want—”

"No, I was stupid,” she cuts him off, biting off the last word with a malice that surprises him. “I thought I could go a night without politics. Without games.” 

Is it twice in one night now that she’s called herself stupid? Three times? He remembers how, on the night she’s speaking of, he was the one who assured her no one else would be joining them. Before she started drinking, she had _asked him_ if it was safe. He still doesn't know what happened that night after she and Littlefinger departed, but what he _does_ know is that he never wants to see Littlefinger’s face again.

“You should speak to Lord Royce. The knights need to feel they are as important to you as the free folk.” Sansa stands. “This is ruling.”

He pushes his ale aside and does as she bids. As he and Lord Royce lightly compare military experiences and discuss the declining weather— he doesn’t seem like the most talkative man, and neither is Jon— he positions himself to keep a watchful eye on Sansa, never letting her out of his frame of sight. He is still watching her when Lord Royce politely excuses himself. He is watching when Lady Mormont interrupts Sansa and Littlefinger, watching when Sansa excuses herself and walks with Lady Mormont and a few of her men out of the hall, and only then does he breathe a sigh of relief.  

That night his addled mind cannot seem to decide if it wants to have nightmares about hungry green eyes on a sniveling rat’s face or young boys with daggers who feel betrayed— or a girl tied to a bed as blades slice open her ivory skin. But he wakes several times in a cold sweat, tremors wracking his body until Ghost nudges him calm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment!


	14. if you're bled, I bleed the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/187521302262/wolf-circle-north-chapter-14-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Where's My Love" SYML. 
> 
> Trigger warning for mentions of past abuse (Ramsay is his own warning). If that kind of thing bothers you, you might want to skip this chapter. 
> 
> Just wanted to say thank you so much to all of you for reading this story! Your encouragement means a lot to me, and it has just been so fun!
> 
> This chapter is the first I wrote for the fic, along with that segment from chapter 12! Majorly edited since to fit in with the rest of the story I created since then... (I don't write in chronological order, like, at all!) .. enjoy!

The whispers don't stop.

The first moon that passes over the walls of Winterfell pulses with new life. Stewards, handmaidens, cooks, blacksmiths, and servants of all kinds bustle with energy and gratitude over the expelled Bolton forces. Jon sees this in the grateful smiles and the reverent _"my lord"s_ — a title that is strange to hear in Winterfell, a feeling that does not fade by the twentieth or the hundredth time he hears it.  

In the beginning Jon wanted a complete change of the guard and the household of the keep. This was something he and Sansa had disagreed on; she reminded him that they would find no substitutes for their servants that would be any more or less loyal. "The entire North was under the Boltons, not just the Winterfell keep," she told him, and he conceded. 

Although he initially held onto doubt, searching for betrayal in every corner of the keep, he eventually sees. He remembers Sansa's bold _"the north remembers"_ at Castle Black when she had challenged Davos for not knowing the true fiber of Northerners. He remembers her pleading but steely gaze as she gave him the both the push and permission to claim his Stark blood and ask the Northern houses for aid. He comes to see that these people who had served under Bolton's rule of Winterfell without protest were prisoners too, he sees it in the huddled heads and quiet sobs from all who had lost their kin to Ramsay's cruelty. He feels a well of sympathy for them when he imagines what it would be like, if he had to know that Arya or Bran had suffered such a fate— and his stomach twists when he realizes that he has no idea what fates Arya or Bran _have_ suffered, and worse, that Sansa was the one who had suffered the worst at Ramsay's hands.

"His dog, he'd call her, except he loved his dogs," an old woman's words reach his ears as he walks to his office one night. It is a few days after Jon heard the first disturbing words— _wring out the blood,_ still fresh in his mind and stealing sleep from him—and he is so startled that he stops walking and grips the wall, suddenly untethered. 

He stands still until he can walk again, and with every clipped footstep he wonders why he can suddenly hear all of this when he doesn't remember ever being privy to the words of servants when he was a boy in Winterfell, despite he and Robb's and Theon's wanderings. He wonders if he is paying attention. He wonders if he is seeking it out. 

He tries to stop. 

He is ordering a bath one night when he hears, "her screams that shook those bloody banners on the walls...." and Jon quickly presses his hands over his ears, exhausted, not caring if the gesture is childish, unwilling to hear another word lest he not sleep for a single minute that night. 

He and Podrick are leaving the training yard one morning, panting and covered in a sheen of dirt and sweat, when a woman's heavy voice reaches his ears. ".... unconscious in her bathwater... dirty with blood... probably praying to drown."

Jon's eyes leap to Podrick's, whose face is scrunched up in confusion or hurt. "They didn't think they could revive her," the voice continues.

"How many times?"

"Too many." Her voice drops even lower. "One time—"

But Podrick has had enough. He puffs out his chest and turns the corner. "That's enough of that. Back to your work now, ladies."

By the time Jon finds the strength in his legs again and reaches him, the women are gone. 

Jon is in the forge receiving a report when a blacksmith’s description of Ramsay Bolton's knives makes him lose focus. "Little more than fruit knives. Perhaps they _were_ fruit knives. Gods, it was awful, he used them and _much_ worse on the Lady Sansa—"

The words cut off with a yelp, and Jon realizes he his feet have carried him into their line of sight. The look on his face must be the reason the two stumble over their apologies as they quickly back out of the room. Or perhaps it is his fists clenched at his sides. 

When launderers enter Sansa's chambers they begin to talk as they sift through her clothes, not seeing Jon in the high backed plush seat by the hearth. He is waiting for Sansa to discuss a raven from the Karstarks, but the scroll and its contents lie forgotten in his fist as he hears a sharp gasp.

"Enith told me, but..."

Against every instinct in his body Jon turns his head. The launderer is holding up a shift, a delicate sheer thing, and Jon's face would be burning to be looking at one of Sansa's intimate garments like this, but he can't think past the spots and stripes of rust-brown on the fabric. The image in front of him wavers for a moment. His breath thunders in his ears.

"I never see smallclothes, amongst her things," the other launderer is saying. "I heard she burns them and makes more."

"Poor girl... of course she does. Because of the bleeding."

"... how bad could he have hurt her, _there?"_ Her audible shudder twists Jon's stomach past the point of pain and this time he _is_ sick, alerting the women to his presence and shocking them into running to his side. He hurls what little his stomach holds until he is heaving, dry, unable to stop. 

After each of these incidents he is unable to meet Sansa's gaze for at least a day, a difficult feat as she seems to love to direct those brilliant blue eyes at him when they plan, when they argue, when they so much as greet each other. What is usually quite lovely becomes unbearable with the whispers burning in his ears, searing his mind with images he never wanted to see, worse than all the death and misery he's seen, impossibly worse than what he's seen at the very end of the world. 

The day after the appalled launderers clean his vomit from Sansa's hearth, Jon makes up his mind to talk to her. He isn't sure what he's going to say, but he can't ignore the bloodstained shift, can't ignore the fact that she is bleeding, _now_ , and yesterday and the week before, when they sat in meetings and at meals and even in the godswood. The fact of her pain was hard enough to stomach when it was a thing of the past, but knowing she is suffering now is more than he can bear. 

"Jon," she says when she opens the door to her chambers, her voice light before she catches his expression. "What's wrong?"

"There's something I have to ask you." He walks past her into her chambers and his eyes fall on the chairs, but he is vibrating with nerves; sitting is out of the question. 

"Tell me, Jon." Her voice is steel but her hands are clutching each other in a vice grip, the nails digging into the skin and he is _scaring_ her, curse him. 

"I saw... I heard...." Jon knew this would happen. He struggles to find words for what he wants to ask. He swallows a great lungful of air and soldiers on. "I need to know if you're well."

The muscles in Sansa's face jump, her brows rising and her mouth curving up, then down. "I don't understand. This is what you wanted to ask?"

"Sansa," he groans, wishing he could communicate everything in that single word. "I saw something yesterday, and I'm very sorry if it's not proper, I didn't mean to see it, but I did. The launderer held up your shift... it was bloodied."

His voice fades into a croak by the last word, and she has gripped the back of the chair before her, like it is holding her upright.

"I won't ask," he is quick to say. "I won't, not unless you want me to, and you can tell me as much as you want. I _will_ listen and I will give you whatever you need. But when I see that... I have to say something. I have to do everything I can."

Her face is inscrutable once more, and if it wasn't for her trembling lip, he would think her made of ice. "I'm alright."

"How did this happen? Who did this to you?"

Her eyes jump to him then, cut him like glass. "You _know_ who."

He chokes on the name. "Bolton?"

She nods, a sharp jerk of her chin.

"You've been with me for six months, Sansa. You came to me _six months_ ago. You're telling me you've been bleeding from those wounds this entire time?" His voice rises steadily and he fights desperately to control it. 

"The journey—" Her jaw clicks shut. "I told you. I had to jump from the walls. I had to swim through ice water and ride horseback for days at breakneck speed. I had to fight— _try_ to fight— the hounds—"

The cage around Jon’s unnatural heart constricts further and further with every word, with every realization of how blind and ineffectual he’s been. He had only asked her once at Castle Black, nervous and embarrassed, if she needed any physical attention, and he hadn’t fought her when she refused, trusting her to ask for what she needed. He had crushed her to his chest when he’d seen her in the courtyard— had he hurt her then? For months after they had slept in tents and various keeps as they traveled the north, and she had ridden horses for hours without complaint. He should have looked closer, should have known better. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Sansa is starting to tremble and he raises his hands slowly, palms forward. "It's alright," he murmurs, and he waits for her to still before continuing, as gently as he is able. "Have you seen a maester since?"

"Yes."

Something in her tone makes him press. "Have you let him examine you?"

A moment passes before she opens her mouth, and Jon doesn't know if it means anything—perhaps it means nothing—but she is miles better than him at lying and at pretty much everything else, so he holds up a hand. " _Don't_ lie to me about this, Sansa. By all the gods. Don't lie about this."

There must be something in his face because her shoulders drop the slightest bit. "No." 

"All that time you spend with Maester Wolkan, and not a minute of it for you?"

"He gives me balms to help," she says, chin rising, defiant.

" _Balms?"_ The image of the shift returns to his mind, the lines of mottled blood. Open wounds, _open_ wounds on Sansa's back, and gods know where else. His eyes sting. "You need more than that."

"I won't let him look at me. I won't let anyone look at me again."

Jon tries not to unpack those words, tries to forget them so they won't fuel new nightmares. "Is there someone else? Anyone else, I don't care where. I'll find them, I'll bring them here."

A cloud falls over her gaze. "No."

"Do you not trust Maester Wolkan? If you don't, tell me. I'll accept it, I won't press you."

She closes her eyes before she answers. "I trust him, as much as I can trust any maester."

Jon nods. "Then let him help you. I need you to be well."

Her head is already shaking before he is through. Long minutes pass and she doesn't speak, only shakes her head in mute refusal. 

He presses his palm to his chest, a futile attempt to stop the ache there. "Sansa… I’m begging you.”

Her eyes follow the movement of his hand on his heart, then move up to trail over his face. He watches her lips open to drag in breath. 

"I'll try. I'll try to bring myself to go to him."

He crosses to her in a single bound, his shaking hands rising to cup her face, her eyes blue and wary and vulnerable. "I'm so sorry, Sansa. I would do anything to take your suffering from you, I would—" He swallows and stops, he could go on for days, and it doesn't matter at all, does it? "I'll protect you."

He can almost see the various protests gather in her mouth. _No one can protect me._ Instead she mumbles, "You can try.”

"I _am_ trying, now, by asking this of you. Do you see that?" He realizes he's apologizing, asking her to forgive him for any transgression, for bringing this subject to the forefront of her mind.

"Yes." The admission is dragged from her, barely pushed through her teeth. Jon doesn't care. If she sees the maester, if she starts to heal, anything that gets her there will have been worth it. 

* * *

 

Sansa makes an effort to acknowledge the people she passes on her walks through Winterfell's keep and grounds, whether they are efficient trips from room to room or walks of leisure. If she is in not short on time, a rarity, she will use titles and names; her mother's rearing and her time in King's Landing have taught her to never forget a name or a face. 

But today even the slightest nod of acknowledgement as she passes through the halls is difficult. The meeting of the North’s complete forces is in three days, and the Northern lords have been trickling into Winterfell for days now. Jon is growing more sour by the day as the slightest mention of the army of the dead is shut down by derision or nonchalance.

Or perhaps it is she who is fouling his mood, she who now seems to offend him by her mere presence. When they sit together to eat he watches every morsel touch her lips, his brows drawn together. When she drinks tea or water he watches her throat. When they cross each other’s paths his eyes rove over her form, his eyes burning with concern or whatever stupid thing he thinks gives him permission to look at her like she is no longer Sansa, like she is something to be pitied. 

If only he knew. Her wounds were at their worst at Castle Black and yet he didn’t look at her the way he does now. _He didn’t know then,_ she reminds herself, though of course he doesn’t know now, she thinks derisively. Not really. No one could know, no one except Theon, the only other person to be looked upon by Ramsay’s cold eyes and touched by his colder hands—

_Ramsay. Is. Dead._

Sansa struggles to inhale and exhale with each step. This path is especially difficult, the path to the maester’s chambers. Against her will her mind conjures memories of walking this way, often with cruel Myranda at her side, after Roose would force his son to tend to his wife’s well-being. A cruel charade by everyone involved; Roose only cared about procuring an heir, and Ramsay only went through the song and dance to appease his father, his brutality continuing behind closed doors.

This morning she awoke with grim determination to keep her word to Jon. The dryness of the winter air aggravates her skin to cracking and bleeding. This morning she was barely able to rise from bed without stifling a moan.

That would not do, especially with the threats facing the north. Sansa needs to be at her strongest. Yet when she stands before Maester Wolkan she swallows the words she meant to say; she speaks only of sleeping troubles. He gives her a draft for it and they spend a few minutes discussing his progress on other tasks.

 _I tried._ Jon could not be angry with her. In fact, she doubts he will broach the subject again, as it was evidently difficult for him to do so once. She too struggled to hide her emotions during that conversation, and she knows that Jon doesn’t like to cause her distress if he can avoid it.

She is wondering what she will say if Jon _does_ question her when Littlefinger turns the corner ahead. Quickly the glass vial she holds is shoved out of sight, curved into her palm. "Lady Sansa," he calls out from across the way, his pace noticeably quicker as he moves to reach her. "But you are a sight." 

"Thank you, Lord Baelish." She is grateful not to be fresh from the attentions of the maester to her wounds now that Littlefinger's happened upon her—who knows what she would have looked like? Instead, she is perfectly composed, and she thanks the gods for that.

He falls into step with her. "Maester Wolkan is fortunate to have your assistance."

"From the results I see, he is a very competent maester." 

"He must be. Your wounded were taken care of in such a short time, and from such a brutal battle no less." Littlefinger looks at her in a way that makes her skin crawl. "They have you to thank." 

Sansa lowers her gaze to her feet. "I have no healing talents, my Lord. I can’t claim credit.”

He chuckles— or is that a scoff? "There's no need for that with me. You know I see you for who you really are, for who you will become."

Sansa barely keeps the frustrated sigh in her throat. "And who is that, Lord Baelish?"

"Wardeness of the North. Then… Queen of the Seven Kingdoms." He whispers the last.

How little he knows her, she thinks to herself. How little he understands her. To think she would want to be queen, let alone _his_ queen. To think that she would ever want to go south again, to think that power is what she craves, when her only wish is the safety of her family and her people.

"It feels we are far removed from that future, my Lord." Sansa doubts he will reveal his plan to her, but perhaps she’ll get a some sense of his direction.

"The future is already here. Soon there will be more northern lords gathered in the great hall than there have been since the days of your father. They should follow a trueborn Stark again." 

"The lords will make the right decision," she says simply. 

"And if they don't?"

"This is the north, Lord Baelish, not the south where everyone trembles and bites their tongues before their rulers, only to slit their throats when their backs are turned." _Steady, steady_ , she tells herself, inhaling deeply to calm her speech. "The northern people are allowed to think freely, to voice their thoughts before us."

He tuts. "Fear has a reasonable place in ruling, my dear. You will see."

"It's important to earn their fealty. Their respect."

"Their love?" Littlefinger arches a brow and the smile playing around his mouths suggests he is quite pleased with himself. "I do see Margaery in you." 

Sansa stops in her tracks then quickly resumes walking, hoping he didn’t notice the slip. She turns her face slightly to the wall, not wanting him to see her surprise at the name she hasn't heard in so long.

"You befriend the maester, you tend the wounded. I have heard you visit Wintertown's poor and orphaned, feeding and clothing them... even those wildling savages are not exempt from your kindness. You are even better than Margaery, my sweet, you will surpass her in every way."

"I learned quite a lot from her." She smiles tightly. "I hope she is well."

Littlefinger's step slows to a halt. Sansa turns to look at him. There is a strange pull to his mouth, the muscles there twitching, and his eyes are inscrutable when he says, "Margaery is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment!


	15. if you must mourn, my love (don't do it alone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/187559788816/wolf-circle-north-chapter-15-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "You" Keaton Henson.

 

"You're not eating."

Jon looks up from the list composed in Sansa's delicate, flawless hand at Davos's gruff accusation. "You're growing thin."

"I'm fine."

"That won't do. You're small enough already."

Jon bites back a frustrated sigh, but his nerves ease when he looks up and finds a small smile on his advisor's face. But there is also the knowing look in his eyes.

"I've been ill," Jon says, looking down at the parchment again in an attempt lie more convincingly. Though it isn't exactly a lie, he thinks wryly; worry for Sansa turns his stomach, thinking of her suffering steals his sleep. 

"Whatever it is..." Even without looking Jon can sense Davos's shrewd gaze, and he tries to sit tall and nonchalant under it. "Take care of it. You're no help to anyone at less than capacity."

"You're right," Jon acquiesces. "Any affairs we need to discuss?"

"Lord Manderly arrives today."

"Right." The quickly approaching meeting returns to his mind. In three days it will fall to Jon to convince them to fight a threat they have never seen.

"There have been thefts from the Vale guests. Lord Royce is not happy. He says he is trying to control the knights but I wouldn't say he's trying very hard."

Jon grumbles. "What's been stolen?"

"Gold, weapons, women."

"Women?"

"Whores," Davos says after a pause.

Jon thinks this over. "The free folk don't take whores. It's not their way."

Davos half-smirks. "I'd say you're overestimating them. Men are men, and they are more hot-blooded than most."

Still, it doesn't sound right to Jon. "What else? Has the fighting escalated?"

"No, but I heard something... not from a reputable source, it may be nothing."

"Speak."

"Some of the wildlings may be thinking of moving further north."

Jon blinks; he didn't expect that.

"Closer to Last Hearth," Davos elaborates. "I'm not sure why, and it was a... woman of the night who gave this information. Podrick. She told Podrick, he told me," he is quick to explain.

"The Umbers won't like that," he mutters. They are already on shaky ground with the Umbers, and Jon isn't sure if how he wants to move forward with them; a complication like this isn't ideal. More than anything he cannot risk losing any more of the free folk force.

"I need to talk to Tormund." He adds the task to the mental list of the day ahead. He is halfway to his feet when Davos stops him.

"Before you do anything else, _eat_. Threats are coming from every direction, as you can surely see. You need to keep your strength up."

Jon decides he will honor Davos's request— or he'll try. But first he will go to the training yard, where he can see a cap of yellow hair from his window.

* * *

 

"Lady Brienne."

If she is surprised at his interruption of her training, she doesn't show it. Instead she dismisses her sparring partner and strides over to him, managing to look dignified even with her chest heaving from the physical exertion.

"My lord."

"There's something I want you to do."

Her chin rises and her eyes narrow. He wonders if she is surprised or maybe even offended, as she doesn't need to take orders from him. But she must be curious, at the very least, because she waits for him to elaborate.

"There are many in this keep, servants and the like, who worked here during Bolton rule and talk of that time." He wonders how much he should say. "They talk about the lady Sansa."

The way Brienne's nostrils flare tells him she knows exactly what he means, which twists his stomach and strengthens his resolve. 

"I won't let them speak about her that way. It's disrespectful. And... I can't risk her hearing it."

She looks down at him, appraising. Her hard expression does not reveal her thoughts. "I agree," she finally speaks. "She doesn't need the reminder."

"I would ask you to help me end it."

Brienne nods, mouth set with determination.

"If you hear anyone talk about her, tell them that won't be tolerated, by order of their Lord and Warden of the North." Though the words are strange in his mouth it feels right to use them this way, for Sansa. "Say it so that anyone nearby will hear and learn. Tell them that the punishment is displacement. Then bring them to me."

"Displacement?"

"I know, Sansa wishes to keep the servants... She says they were Bolton prisoners too."

He waits for Brienne to argue, to defend Sansa's wishes. Instead, Brienne lowers her eyes to the ground before saying, "Lady Sansa is too kind."

"Yes, she is." Despite everything Jon finds himself fighting a smile. "For her sake, I will make sure they are relocated to Wintertown with good prospects."

"Won't that just move the gossip to Wintertown?"

"The people of Wintertown love Sansa."

For the first time Jon sees something resembling kindness in her eyes directed at him. "They don't talk out of hate. It's out of pity."

Jon closes his eyes against the images that flood them, and speaks with a hard voice. "The Lady of Winterfell deserves respect and deference and admiration, not pity." He sighs. "If it fails, I will think of stronger measures."

Brienne bows her head. "Yes, my Lord."

As he walks away after having thanked her, he feels marginally better than he has in weeks, more grounded. He thinks he may be able to eat some soup, and even a bit of hard bread, after all.

* * *

Jon is returning to his office after having just received Lord Manderly's traveling party— Sansa was notably absent, which worries him— when he is accosted by Tormund and at least another dozen free folk and northmen.

The lower half of Tormund's face and neck is covered in blood. All the men look similarly injured. "What—!"

"Those fuckers," Tormund growls. "They're blaming us, but no one saw what happened!"

At that an uproarious protest springs from the rest of the men, and Jon yells over them until they are quiet. "Someone tell me what happened!"

Through differing testimonies Jon pieces it together. A group of free folk were traveling north of Winterfell when a Vale hunting party happened upon them. The wildlings claimed to be hunting too, in search of bigger game for furs. When the knights saw that their group contained a few Northern girls, they accused the wildlings of kidnapping and worse crimes. 

"The girls got hurt in the fight. One of them is refusing to speak and keeps asking for your sister."

"Where is the girl?"

"Infirmary," a Northman tells him.

"See the maester," Jon orders Tormund, pointing to his nose, his feet already moving on a path he's memorized. "We'll meet you there."

But Sansa is not easy to find. She isn't in her office or his. He hopes she hasn't chosen this day to leave Winterfell on some mission or other— especially with this turn of events, especially when he has seen Brienne and Podrick within the keep and thus they would not be protecting her. Worry thunders through his ears and quickens his step. He decides to check her bedchamber, although it is an unlikely place for her to be during the day, before leading a search party for her. He has to knock four times before the door opens. "Sansa, where have..."

The words die in his throat. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed, her face blotchy and the delicate purple shadows beneath her eyes more obvious than ever. 

"Yes, Jon?"

"What's wrong?"

She turns away from the door without closing it, so Jon takes it as an invitation. He follows her to the window, where she has stopped, her face a breath away from the glass. 

"It's not a good time," she says after a moment. 

"I'm sorry." When she doesn't speak he continues. "There was a fight and a woman was asking to speak to you. It can wait."

Her eyes don't move from the nothing she is staring at. Jon's gut churns with concern but he doesn't want to push her. He has just about made up his mind to leave when she says, "I received some news."

He is surprised at the relief that overcomes him when he realizes she's going to speak to him. 

"Margaery Tyrell..." She rests her forehead on the glass. "She was my friend. She's dead."

The name is not new to him; Jon knows of the Tyrell family and knows of Margaery as Joffrey's short-lived wife. The news of their union was the last news he had of Sansa until she appeared at Castle Black. The raven mentioned "Lady Lannister's" suspicious disappearance, and Jon remembers hoping his sister was somewhere safe and far from the Lannisters and not sparing her another thought— he burns with shame to think of his quick dismissal now.

"Cersei killed her." Sansa’s eyes meet Jon’s, full of pain, imploring. "She burned the Sept of Baelor with wildfire, Jon. Gods— she killed hundreds to get to her." 

"That's..." Jon tries to wrap his head around this destruction, around something he's never seen. "I'm so sorry."

"Cersei thinks she's so smart, but Margaery was better." Her voice grows sharper with each word. "She did what Cersei never could, she had the people's love, she had Joffrey wrapped around her finger, something _I_ could never do.... I remember when she strode into the throne room and took him. She didn't have to do anything more than that— just by ending my betrothal to him I would be in her debt. I remember how happy I was, to be free... for about a minute, before Littlefinger....”

She trails off but Jon will not have it. “Until he _what?”_

“Nothing,” she sighs. “He told me… that Joffrey could hurt me even worse now. He could still...  _visit_ me... and not even owe me the care he owes a wife.”

Jon fights the itch to break things until the rage is gone, fights the urge to choke the life out of a man already dead. He can never take his justice against Joffrey, but Littlefinger… Littlefinger is not dead. He is here, in his own keep, yet Jon’s hands are barred from moving against him, and that feels infinitely worse.

"When I would watch Margaery by Joffrey's side... the way she would smile at him... it didn't seem the same woman who walked with me and spoke of Highgarden, who wanted us to be sisters." She sighs. "But I learned. We are all liars in King's Landing."

The last irritates him. "And you liked this woman?"

She glares at him. "You don't know what it was like."

"I'm not judging—"

"Yes, you are.”

“I didn’t—”

“I thought I would die there."

The words shouldn't be surprising and yet Jon feels shock. His hand finds her arm and he thanks every god there is when she doesn't push him away. 

"I thought I would die there like father. I kept waiting for Joffrey to give the order, for Cersei to poison my food. I tried to give them reasons not to hurt me. I called father and Robb traitors. Do you judge me for that too?"

"Never," he swears. It's himself he judges, himself he hates, for not riding down the Kingsroad and saving her. 

She shakes her head, the movement pressing more of her face to the glass. "They hurt me anyway. I should have told the truth. It's what Arya would have done."

The image of little Arya staring daggers at Joffrey and Cersei is both amusing and terrifying. Jon pushes it from his mind. "You did the right thing. You survived." 

"Yes, I did. By not trusting anyone." She fiddles with a frayed thread at her sleeve. "Shae told me not to trust anyone. But Margaery was so kind, she tried to help me escape, and I latched onto hope, onto her.... I was stupid." 

"Sansa, stop saying that."  

"I was—"

"Smart, strong, resourceful." He looks at her evenly. "I've met many different people, at the Watch, beyond the Wall, and most of them were good at surviving. But not one of them could have survived King's Landing. You could. You did."

"It isn't something admirable, Jon," she mumbles.

"And why not?"

She shrugs, the storm in her downcast eyes belying thoughts he wishes she would give voice to, so he could protest each and every single one. 

His hand skates across the window until his fingertips brush her cheek. "Come away from there," he mumbles, cupping her ice cold cheek in his palm. "You are clever, Sansa, and you are good and admirable, too. Whatever brought you home, it was the right thing to do."

 _Whatever brought her to him._ He feels his chest seize with something other than pain as he looks at her face in his hand. He wants to lead her to the bed and press linen-wrapped ice to her red, swollen eyes. He wants her to sleep for days until the purple shadows under her eyes are gone. He wants to feed her lemon cakes and other hot, sweet things until there is color in her cheeks again. 

A hint of a smile blooms across her pale face, then she heaves a great sigh. "Let's go talk to that woman," Sansa says, something shuttering over her eyes and she is all duty once more. "What was the fight about?"

 


	16. transformation, a melody of reformation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/187651642956/wolf-circle-north-chapter-16-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "One" Sleeping At Last.

The woman is small in stature, made even smaller by the way she holds her knees to her chest. Her dark hair is matted in places and a long stitch runs across her forehead, a smaller one through the corner of her mouth. “Reina Perek,” Sansa breathes by Jon's side.

“You know her?”

“Just her name.” Sansa walks ahead and Reina’s face transforms at the sight of her, splitting into a smile that must hurt her injured mouth.

“My lady! I didn't think you would actually come— but, _of course_ you would, I didn’t mean that, my lady. You are so kind…” She only seems to notice Jon then, once she has drunk her fill of Sansa. She gives him a curt greeting. “My lord.”

Sansa descends onto the cot by Reina’s side and takes one of her hands in hers. Reina’s eyes fall to their joined hands and double in size.

“Are you well?” Sansa asks. “That looks like it hurts.”

“It does,” she admits, sheepish. “It’s nothing but I’m not even used to scrapes. Maester says I’ll heal just fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Reina’s mouth opens, but no words spill forth. Her eyes flick to Jon. She doesn’t want to speak in front of him, that much is obvious. Before he can decide if it is safe to excuse himself and leave Sansa with her, Sansa says, “Get some rest over the next few days. If you need anything, you can come to me.”

A gentle dismissal— Sansa isn’t looking at him, but he understands. Even though Reina won’t talk in front of him, Sansa doesn't want him to leave. So he won’t.

Reina’s eyes switch from him to her, and Jon decides to rush it along. “Do you want to tell us what happened?” he asks gently.

After a moment, Reina nods. “It was awful, it happened so fast…” She repeats the story Tormund told Jon, which he relayed to Sansa on the walk here. “The knights attacked first, I'll admit that. But the wildlings lost control. It was..." She shudders.

Sansa speaks in a soft voice. “Do you remember who hurt you?”

She nods, resolutely not looking at Jon when she says, “The wildlings.”

Jon wants to know more; he wants to ask if it was an accident, if the free folk had deliberately sought to hurt her and the other women, and which man it was exactly— Jon has no intention of allowing the crime of hurting a woman go unpunished while he is lord of Winterfell, no matter who the perpetrator is. But he bites his tongue. Every time the girl’s eyes land on him, she becomes tight-lipped. Let Sansa speak to her.

“Fights can be confusing and terrifying.” Sansa squeezes Reina’s hand and Jon wonders if Sansa is speaking from experience. “Even if you aren’t being targeted, it’s like getting caught in a most terrible storm.”

“It felt like a storm,” Reina admits. “I don’t know if they meant to hit us. They were just so angry.”

Sansa’s eyes meet Jon’s for half a second, echoing the growing concern he feels. “What were you doing with the free folk?”

Reina doesn't answer right away. “They came upon us returning to Winterfell and offered to escort us. They said we were at war and we weren’t safe, a couple of girls wandering the woods without any weapons.”

A dozen questions shoot through Jon’s mind, but Sansa asks the most prevalent one, bless her. “What were you doing in the woods?”

Here Reina's face reddens, and her lips thin to the point that he thinks they won’t be getting an answer. But then she says, in a voice so low that he barely catches it, “Direwolves.”

“Direwolves?” Jon echoes, wondering if he heard right. 

Reina’s eyes bear into Sansa’s when she says, “Winter is here. We’ve been hearing whispers that direwolves are in the woods.”

Sansa’s face betrays nothing but her words are slightly shaky when she speaks. “And you wanted to find one?"

“As many as we could,” Reina says. “For you, my lady.”

Her eyes widen. “For me?”

“Direwolves belong to the Starks. You should have them. We want them in Winterfell. We want...” Her eyes drop, a shudder shaking her shoulders. “We don’t want Winterfell to ever fall again.”

A shadow passes over Sansa’s eyes, something so dark it makes Jon ache.

Reina rubs at her eyes, tears falling from them now. “Ramsay Bolton killed my husband.”

“I am sorry,” Jon says, feeling for the woman. He keeps his eye on Sansa, who hasn’t yet outwardly reacted to the name.

“He was a monster,” Reina spits. But the rage and sadness vanishes from her face as she boldly surges forward, taking Sansa’s hands in hers. “But you fought for us, my lady. You withstood Ramsay for us. All to take back the north.”

“What do you mean?”

 “Your marriage… it was all to take back control of the north.” Reina speaks slowly, as if confused. “Wasn’t that the plan, my lady? Marry him, kill him, and become Wardeness of the North?”

Sansa is cold steel again when she demands, “Why do you think that?”

Reina looks shocked at Sansa’s obvious displeasure. “It was the knights talking. They said they heard it from their lord. It made sense.... I apologize, my lady.”

“Lord Baelish?”

“Lord Royce.”

Sansa nods and pulls herself to her feet. “Thank you, Reina. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Thank _you,_ my lady.”

“One thing,” Jon says. Both women look to him in surprise, as if they forgot he was there. “Why were the free folk going north when they came upon you?"

“Hunting.”

“Hunting?”

Reina shrugs, but Jon won’t be so easily deterred. “What do you know of the free folk and Last Hearth?”

She sighs as if the mere question frustrates her. “Last Hearth is a rumor.”

Jon frowns, and she continues. “Aren’t the Umbers the ones who gave your brother to the Bolton _bastard_ to be killed? Think on it… it’s pretty clear to me. They want Jon Snow to doubt his men.”

“Thank you… be well,” Jon says by way of farewell, for Sansa has already crossed to leave the room.

In a moment he has caught up with her and he walks by her side, absentminded, as he considers what he just learned. The people currently occupying Winterfell are more unpredictable than he thought, down to the serving girls who journey to the woods to look for direwolves. What a wild thing, he thinks, smiling despite the gravity of the situation. It would be even harder to unite them all than it was to get the men of the Watch to tolerate the free folk— and he hadn’t really done that, he reminds himself. The scars on his body are proof enough.

But the army of the dead is at their door and Sansa is in Winterfell, so he will have to try harder.

“Sansa.” Jon pulls her to a stop when he realizes she is leading them to her office. “You should return to your chambers.”

“It’s still early.” She shakes her head. “I wasted enough time today.”

“You’re tired, upset...”

Sansa scoffs. “There it is.”

One flash of that derisiveness in her eyes and they’re arguing. “There's _what?”_

“Your _pity,_ the way you’ve been treating me like I’m thin as glass. I'm quite capable, Jon.”

The proud tilt of her chin almost undoes him, almost sets him laughing, because it is ridiculous that he would do something like think her incapable. “You don’t have to tell me. I know it.”

“Do you?”

“I could never pity you, Sansa. Why would I? Pity is for those lesser, and _you...”_ He swallows, overcome. Her eyes soften and he could swear there is a flush of pink in her cheeks.

“I only wanted you to rest because you haven’t stopped moving.” This is true, but there are a dozen more reasons he knows he shouldn't mention. Margaery’s death. Her wounds and the maester’s visit they’d argued over, burning in the back of his mind every second of every day. An echo of Davos’s words come to him and he gives her the reason he thinks will convince her. “The meeting is soon. You'll feel most prepared if you're well rested.”

She wrings her hands. “Are we ready?”

“We are.”

She sighs and he can see in the set of her shoulders that she is close to caving. “I have much to do today. I have to check on the wine and the mead.”

“I’ll do it.”

She gives him a small smile. “And candles.”

“Send a list if you must.” He turns and starts walking in the direction of her chambers. He considers it a victory when she falls into step with him. He does not let the way she holds him at her bedchamber door, fussing over the details of various tasks in an obvious attempt at stalling, taint that victory.

For the rest of the day Jon wonders about her accusation— _your pity_ — and feels properly chastised. Since they argued over her wounds he can admit he has been distant and sensitive and strange around her. That’s the last thing she needs, the last thing she deserves. So he makes a point of visiting her chambers that night after all his duties are done, finding her sitting by the fire with her sewing. He can’t help the pleasure he feels when she tells him she has slept several hours, when she smiles such an open smile at the tea and hot cakes he has brought for her.

“Before you go,” she says when he bids her goodnight. “I wanted to explain something.”

Jon is alarmed when she avoids his gaze. Her hands in her lap start to twitch in small movements, fingers rubbing over her palm. “What is it?”

“What Reina said. About my... my _plan_ with Ramsay. That wasn’t true. Well, that wasn’t the plan.”

He is curious but a thousand times more concerned. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I was never going to kill him.” She lowers her gaze to her lap. “I’m not proud of that. I wish I would have thought to kill him when I could have. Stannis was meant to take Winterfell and save me.”

Jon feels both hot and cold all over. How sure he felt when he rejected Stannis, how confident that he made the right choice. The only cost he thought he paid was his own, a Stark legitimization. Instead he had unknowingly bartered weeks of Sansa's life. There is never a right choice, it seems.

"No one can save anyone. That’s what I learned.”

“You saved yourself.” Jon bends over where Sansa sits in her chair and takes her hand. “You did it all on your own.”

She lowers her gaze. “I didn’t do it on my own.”

Jon frowns. His feelings about Theon Greyjoy are complicated; he hates him and wants to see him gutted, wants to see him dead for what he did to Robb and Bran and Rickon and Winterfell. But Sansa vows he has more than paid the price for his betrayals, and he believes her. Whatever small a role he played in aiding her, how could Jon be anything but grateful, when it is _Sansa._

“Give yourself more credit.” He squeezes her hand and meets her eye. “You are strong like every Stark who came before you.”

“It’s because I’m in Winterfell.” They are not the words he expects to hear but they are perfectly right. She says it like a confession. “It’s because I’m home.”

“Then home we will stay,” as if the matter is decided, as if it was ever a question.

* * *

“The King in the North!”

The cheer ringing through the great hall sends shivers down Sansa’s spine. Is this how Robb felt? No, this is how her lady mother felt, watching a man she loved be crowned.

Sansa feels the heat of a gaze and looks up, finding Jon looking down at her with such an open expression of disbelief and pride— and a question, too. _Is this real? Should this be happening? Do I deserve this?_

She beams at him; _yes._ Yes, he deserves it, he is strong and good and she would protect him so that he would not be taken down like the other strong and good Starks. Oh how proud Robb would be, how proud father would be... to see Starks in Winterfell again, to see the North independent again. Arya and Bran enter her mind, unbidden, and although she tells herself she doesn't pray anymore, she sends out something more than a wish; _let them return. Let them be home. Let them be part of this._

Enraptured as she is, she doesn’t notice Littlefinger’s glare until it is much too late. It must be late because the cheer has been going on for long minutes, and in fact she doesn’t think she has looked at him once during the meeting— panic grips her chest. But why should she have to? Resentfully she reflects on the weeks of preparation for this meeting, the stress of managing the friction between the various factions in Winterfell, the hours of preparation shared between her and Jon.

Yet it was only Jon who spoke today. In the beginning there had been some opportunity for her to contribute but as soon as the conversation turned to the upcoming battle it derailed; Lord Royce was shouting about wildlings, Tormund was needling him in turn. Northern lords wanted to return to their keeps. And Jon had managed it all.

She is proud of him, and this is what she wanted. But she hates this feeling, a nauseating uselessness, a sense of utter displacement, like she isn’t home at all. She could be in King’s Landing, she could be in the Eyrie, she could be on Littlefinger’s ship, it wouldn’t matter, she is the same stupid girl she has always been—

Sansa sucks in a breath and wills her thoughts calm. _None of that is true,_ she admonishes herself with a harsh voice like a Septa’s. She is home. She is home because _she_ brought the knights of the Vale. She is useful and she belongs here and she will never go south again.

And she will have to deal with Littlefinger.

 _He’s the poison._ The thought nearly drowns the bass of the northmen’s chants away. One meeting of the eyes and she completely derailed, doubting her capabilities, doubting what she wants, what she herself orchestrated. And now Jon is not just a lord, not just a warden, he is a _king_. Sansa steals a glance up at Jon’s open, glowing face. He is a king in the most dangerous position a king can be in— a king in Littlefinger’s way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Reina Perek, the OC from chapter 2, in case it wasn't clear! (Jon would have no way of knowing this so it didn't make it to the chapter text)  
> Recognizable bits from the last scene is from 6x10. King in the North!


	17. nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188028013246/wolf-circle-north-chapter-17-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Turning Page" Sleeping at Last.

 

Long after the dwellers of Winterfell have fallen into the quiet of their nighttime lives, Sansa finds Jon in the crypts. “It should be him,” Jon whispers when she is close enough to hear.

Sansa swallows the lump in her throat. Jon is staring at a low platform but she keeps her eyes on the wall; she cannot look at the place that holds her youngest brother’s body. Instead she thinks of her encouragements to Lyanna Mormont; the lady of Bear Island had done more and been fiercer than Sansa had ever expected. She thinks on when she had told Jon Winterfell belonged to him, too. That he hadn’t stolen it from their brothers.

“Remember what we talked about.” She aims for a stern voice and fails miserably.

The corner of Jon's mouth quirks up for a half second, then he is solemn again. “Did you know this would happen? I— I don't know how I should feel.”

“Forget _‘should.’”_

There is a mixture of shock and heat in his eyes illuminated by the torchlight. For some reason Sansa is blushing. She stares at her feet. “I mean, for now… here. You can be honest. How do you feel?”

He answers slowly, as if tasting each word before speaking it. “Honored. Proud.... responsible.” His shoulders slump.

“Are you afraid?”

Jon glances at her; is that guilt she sees? “If I am?”

“Father used to say that the only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid.”

A broken, tremulous smile shakes his mouth. She watches his body shift the slightest bit to look at Ned Stark's statue.

For long minutes they regard the statues of the departed Starks surrounding them and lament the ones missing. Jon suggests building honorary statues for them as soon as the war is done. “Robb first,” he vows, undoubtedly thinking of the last King in the North.

They have both moved slowly so that their arms almost brush now, the side of her body ghosting his. She wonders if she can actually feel the heat of his body through this near-touch or if she is imagining things. She wonders if they will ever get a chance to build these statues, if fighting will ever be done.

* * *

 "The King in the North..." The words are little more than a snarl, transformed from the triumphant cheer that rang through the great hall into something ugly. Petyr Baelish's eyes are narrow slits and angrier than Sansa has ever seen them, a loss of control that frightens her.

"Careful, Lord Baelish. He is my brother.”

"Half brother, _bastard_ brother." A harsh laugh escapes him. "How the lords chose him over you I will never understand."

Sansa lowers her head. "They are reluctant to be led by a woman."

"They listen to that Lady Mormont well enough." He pierces her with a stare and Sansa stiffens, knowing he is testing her reaction. "People flock to him. Who garners more faith than a reluctant king? Who inspires more passion than a war hero such as he?"

Loathe as she is to do it, Sansa places a hand on his arm. "You saved us all from certain defeat. They won't forget."

His eyes drop to the point of contact. His mouth twists. "My dear, that is ancient history by now."

"We still need the Vale in the war to come. The army of the dead is coming. Jon is the only one who has faced them. They need him to survive." _You_ need him, she implores silently. Can he see that? Can he see that clearly enough to not count Jon as an enemy?

"The Vale is loyal to you." Littlefinger's hand falls upon her own, keeping it still on his arm as they walk. "The knights will fight with the King in the North."

Sansa arches a brow.

"I have declared for House Stark. He is my king now. No matter the enemies that come along with such a decision."

"Enemies? Like who?"

"Cersei Lannister."

"If you have truly declared for us, then she was always your enemy."

He shakes his head as if to dismiss her words. "She will not leave you be. She will consider you to be in open rebellion."

"That was always going to be the case, since we will not bend the knee to her son."

"A whisper has reached my ears… that Tommen Baratheon is dead. He perished with the Sept of Baelor."

Sansa halts. "She killed her own son? That doesn't make sense. That's not Cersei."

"Cersei isn't known for her ability to keep a cool head. Her need for vengeance often renders her blind, and she was bound to make a mistake." He smiles tightly. "Albeit, a terrible mistake. It is but a whisper for now, unconfirmed. We will soon know if it is true. If it is, the throne has never been in a more precarious position."

A thousand thoughts and concerns plague her. She wonders how he has this information when she doesn’t, who his spies are. She wants to remind him that survival against the army of the dead is more important than the throne; she wants him to leave forever, is so _weary_ of him that she has half a mind to tell him to go south if he wants, and good riddance. But if he is indeed suggesting taking the Iron Throne by conquest, he will need the Knights of the Vale— and she will not allow _them_ to go south.

"My priorities are here, for now," Sansa speaks carefully. "I must protect the northern people from the threat at our door."

A beat passes. "And I have no wish to rule over a graveyard."

"Then our interests are aligned."

A slimy quirk of a smile. "Of that I have no doubt."

Sansa cannot repress a shudder, wondering with panic if he is mocking her.

* * *

The crypts are the best place for his dealings. It is a spiritual place, a Stark place, and no one but Sansa and the bastard ever go there. It only takes one well-placed spy to inform him of their movements, and so the crypts become the best place for the business he does when he doesn’t want to be seen.

Petyr goes into the crypts as soon as the sun sets. He was told that both Sansa and the bastard visited the night before, at an hour much too late in his opinion. Dear Sansa spends too much time with the new king, more than what their positions demand. Petyr would allow this to bother him more than it does, but he only has himself to blame. He pities Sansa; she is so damaged that she flocks to her half-brother because he is familiar but not at all worthy. Petyr clicks his tongue. Ramsay was a mistake… a _costly_ mistake.

He has an hour to conduct his business before his meeting, and then he must make an appearance at the great hall for supper. He wants to miss it—he can think of many better uses for his time, and the thought of watching _the King in the North_ eat his supper with _his_ bride by his side invites many an unpleasant memory—but he told Sansa he supports her brother, and appearances must be kept.

Thankfully the servant girls come at the appointed time; despite the precautions he takes, Petyr doesn’t like to linger. He pays them for their lies and the beatings they took. “The wildlings tried to escort you, but they only wanted to hurt you,” he had instructed them to say, and it worked. Petyr expected more of a reaction from _chivalrous_ Jon, but perhaps he had overestimated his chivalry and underestimated his love for the wildling beasts. It was no matter. The plan was still in place.

 _More than that,_ he thinks with the taste of victory in his mouth. It took only the slightest well-placed whispers to turn the kindles of animosity between the wildlings and the knights into a flame. Jon has already been attacked once, by the wildlings he loved so much. Yet the bastard hadn’t even taken his justice. If he had, Petyr would have used it to his advantage. But something stayed his hand, something Petyr couldn’t understand, and that had the desired effect too—now it was the knights who had even more resentment for Jon Snow. Jon was only one of the targets of this plan—it was tailored entirely for the downfall of another— but Petyr doesn’t mind the collateral damage. They will all fall, and in the chaos, he will climb.

Petyr counts the girls as he offers further instruction, realizing one is missing. “Alssa is coming,” one of the girls says, as if she knows his thoughts.

“Of course she is,” Petyr smiles indulgently. If she doesn’t, she is compromised. He decides to wait until he has to leave for his meeting.

Minutes later, he hears footsteps— and instantly knows they are not the servant girl’s. Petyr evaluates his options; there is nowhere he would feel confident hiding, and to be caught crouching behind one of the stone statues would be completely undignified and very difficult to explain. But he doesn’t know the crypts well enough to try finding another way out. The Winterfell crypts are a maze, rumored to twist on and on for miles. Most rumors are lies and exaggerations, but he can’t take the chance of getting lost.

So Petyr places himself at Lyanna Stark’s statue. He waits until the footsteps quiet and even out, signifying its bearer is no longer descending the steps, to draw the candle from his pocket. He is lighting the candle when he hears the footsteps stop, hears the ragged male breathing. _Quick tempers, slow minds._ Petyr knew it could only be one person, but now he is sure.

“You don’t belong down here.”

Petyr turns as if startled. “Forgive me, my King.”

He watches with interest as the indecision plays out so painfully clearly over Jon’s body. Jon wants to leave of course, but doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

So Petyr keeps talking. “This place is sacred. I never took the old gods as my own, much like Cat, but I can feel their power here… it is undeniable.”

Jon was never looking at him to begin with, but now he turns away completely. He stares fixedly at Ned’s statue. Petyr sidles a bit closer. He hadn’t planned this but it could be very useful. He would like to learn a thing or two about Jon’s weaknesses—what would drive him to anger, what would make him irrational. _Knowledge is power._ That is what he told Cersei when he used her weakness and her shame as a thorn to prick at her side, the secret of the true nature of her relationship with her brother.

“I delivered his bones to Cat myself.” Petyr waves at Ned’s statue. “I knew how much it would mean to her. To all the Stark children. I hoped they would all be able to visit him here, for the rest of their long days… but there is only one left. I am very sorry for that.”

A tic in Jon’s jaw—nothing more. Petyr attempts a different tactic. “I was sorry when he died. We had our differences, but he loved Cat… so did I. She wasn’t fond of you, was she?”

He is still staring straight ahead, with narrowed eyes. “It appears she vastly underestimated you,” Petyr continues. “All her sons are gone, and you have taken the mantle of King in the North.”

Still, nothing—in the way of words, at least. Jon looks murderous, his eyes mere narrow slits that stare stubbornly ahead at his father’s statue. He clearly doesn’t mean to give Petyr anything, and it is more restraint than he expected. Petyr steps back. “I’m sorry for being here when you came to… pay your respects. I can imagine it’s impossible not to think of him at a time like this… wondering what he would think… if he would approve.”

This must affect him, but Petyr hope it hurts him, _haunts_ him when he is trying to sleep. “I will take my leave. Again, I apologize for being here. When I was last in Winterfell, I made a habit that became quite dear to me, of visiting your aunt’s statue with Sansa.”

“Her name doesn’t belong on your tongue.”

 _A reaction._ Petyr halts his retreating steps. “No less than it belongs on anyone else’s.”

Now it is Jon stepping away from him, whipping past him to the steps. “She is not married, nor betrothed,” Petyr calls, despite the burning like bubbling acid in his stomach, that _this_ is what moves Jon Snow. “But that won’t always be her situation.”

Jon’s steps halt. He does not turn, but his shoulders heave with the force of his breathing.

“Many would seek to marry her for her claim, to use her. But I see her for who she is… I love Sansa. As I loved her mother.”

A blur of motion and a vice around his neck—Petyr gasps, his hands going to his neck uselessly, his gaze darkening as he loses breath, narrowing to just Jon’s murderous glare.

“Touch Sansa—” His choke tightens, his face twitches with rage. “And I’ll kill you myself.”

His hold tightens, tightens, as if he’s considering doing it anyway— then he releases him. Petyr lands on his feet, not realizing he was lifted against the wall. He barely manages to drag in a breath before his world explodes in a flare of red and pain.

Dazed, Petyr touches a hand to his face, mildly surprised when it comes away red. _He punched me._ He glares at Jon’s retreating form, black spots dancing across his vision, and then— _seven hells._ The last of the servant girls stands at the mouth of the stairs, looking between Jon and him with obvious fear. _This fucking whore and her timing._

Jon is looking between them, too, disgust mingling with the anger on his features. Petyr knows Jon sees Alssa’s reddish hair, her blue eyes, and the purple bruise on her face. Petyr knows what conclusion he is drawing, and he allows it. It is better than the truth.

“You don’t have to,” he hears Jon say to her in a low tone. “Leave with me now.”

“I—I—” Alssa looks torn for a moment, but then she moves to Petyr with red cheeks. She is right to fear him more than the brutish king.

Petyr grasps her arm. “Not here.” He pushes her forward, past Jon who is standing still as any of the statues, until he is breathing the night air.

He looks at Alssa. He wants to kill her. She has no idea how much trouble she’s caused—even _he_ has no idea, hasn’t yet contemplated the full extent of the ramifications this interaction could have. He rubs at his sore throat. But no matter what he does, how he covers it up, he knows Jon will suspect him after this. The girl has to live.

So he pays her instead. Her hair is a muddied red-brown and his hand lingers by her bruised cheek.

“Stay out of the light,” he says to her. _“This_ will draw attention. More than it already has, I mean.”

His heavy touch draws a wince from her. She nods, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. Her hair isn’t right but her eyes are perfect. Blue as a summer sea. Despite everything, he feels a tightening in his belly.

“Go now.”

Alssa scurries away. Petyr walks briskly back into Winterfell’s keep. He still has a few minutes to prepare for the meeting with the northern lord. And after, he will have to think on what happened with Jon, what he’s learned about Jon. He will have to think about everything.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognizable bits from the last scene are from 7x01.


	18. our minds are troubled by the emptiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188237362536/wolf-circle-north-chapter-18-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Youth" Daughter.

 

In all the corners of Winterfell there is no place that gives Sansa more peace than the godswood. This surprises her, as the things she prayed for as a child in front of this tree led to the deterioration of everything she holds dear, and now she is a woman who never prays. But when she sits in front of the tree, she sees the ghost of her father and her mother, of her siblings both dead and gone, and perhaps it is to them she speaks to, because she finds herself whispering fervent wishes on a voice lighter than the wind.

But Jon is no ghost, and sometimes he finds her there. The two sit in quiet contentment or exchange simple greetings, but they never share small talk here, not in this place.

Littlefinger no longer preys on Sansa in the godswood, not after one such time he happened upon them both at night and quickly slid away when he caught sight of the silhouette of Jon's cloak. Thankfully Jon did not see him, but Sansa did, and held her breath for the few moments it took Littlefinger to disappear— she did not want to imagine why he had sought her out at so late an hour. Then she smiled at Jon so radiantly he had no choice but to smile himself, his brow furrowing in confusion nonetheless when he asked, "What's that for?"

She bit her lip and, not able to explain what a gift it was that he unknowingly shielded her from Littlefinger, said, "For being here."

She tried not to focus on the way his gaze intensified after that, on the fervor in his voice when he said, "Always, Sansa."

Instead she carries his promise close to her heart as she navigates her daily life, through every difficult conversation and every chilling glance from Littlefinger across a room. Through every ill report and tenacious negotiation and moment of discomfort or fear, she carries his "always, Sansa" along with his "where will _we_ go" and a dozen other promises she might allow herself to start believing. Despite what she told him in the tent when he gave her another promise, "I'll protect you", despite the scars on her body and the irritated wounds that seem to be worsening every day. Sansa ignores them and takes stock of her blessings instead.

Littlefinger has not approached her since the day Jon was named king. Since the morning she crossed him in the hall and glimpsed the dark bruise and an eye nearly swollen shut. It is a welcome reprieve, yet Sansa feels unease when she does not see him for days on end, wondering at his actions in the shadows. She wonders about that bruise even as it yellows and fades, wonders who would have crossed Littlefinger in such a way. She fervently hopes it wasn’t who she almost certainly knows it was.

But Jon never mentions it.

These new days are not generous to her and Jon. He barely spends time alone with her, and although Sansa feels a strange yearning when she thinks on this she tries not to take it personally. Jon is, quite clearly, drowning. The lords trip over their own feet in their hurry to secure private meetings with him, though they are just as quick to whisper and wonder about their new King in the North. Searching for dragonglass and organizing weapons training have become even more of a priority as the weather grows colder; a harbinger of death, Jon reminds them all. The blacksmiths and soldiers of Winterfell have never had more work, and Jon leads them all.

So Sansa contents herself with the greetings and farewells before and after meetings, the few minutes of conversation Jon always insists on having with her, which never fail to make her calm and content regardless of the other events of the day. When their schedules permit them to share a meal she considers it a blessing, even if they are always in the great hall where someone seeks his counsel or hers.

Jon's face is haggard and his beard and hair growing longer, but he is tight-lipped when Sansa inquires after his health or his sleep. Davos is more forthcoming, always giving the Lady of Winterfell his full attention when she calls on him. He tells her Jon is doing the work of five men and rarely spends more than four hours a night in his chamber. Davos grumbles about the knights of the Vale, who still seek resolution for the fight with the free folk and justice for the attack on the northern women, although the women themselves seem keen to forget the matter. "Perhaps you can speak with Lord Royce," he suggests, and Sansa considers.

It is true that Lord Royce has become one of the most constant of her companions. Much more than a military man, Lord Royce showed great keenness for the work of imports, weapons forging, the smallspeople in Wintertown, and a dozen other matters. He was always respectful and defered to her knowledge of the north, never belittling her for her age or sex, and Sansa latched onto his counsel. At first she worried over Littlefinger’s reaction, but this new Littlefinger she never seemed to see appeared unperturbed. Then she worried over the northern lords' reactions, but saw that they were more concerned with Jon's closeness to Tormund.

“The free folk maintain they were hunting and the northern women weren’t with them,” Sansa tells Davos now. “As I’m sure Jon has told you.”

Davos squints. “You believe them, my lady?”

Sansa doesn’t know what to believe. With such confusing testimonies they had been unable to reach the truth or take any action. Sansa suspects foul play but has no grounds for her suspicions. Winterfell is a hotbed of friction at present, and her concern is keeping it intact. “What I believe is Jon’s trust in Tormund,” she answers Davos. “The northern women want to put the matter behind them. We should do just that.”

“I don’t think it’s over, my lady,” Davos warns, voicing her worst thoughts. “Mark my words.”

* * *

Varys has lived in various climates, but Dragonstone is the most irritating, cold and wet. The Essosi soldiers have long since discarded their lighter sleeveless garbs and donned thick, high necked uniforms. The Ironborn seem comfortable— _too_ comfortable, in his opinion— they follow the example of their leader, who prances about as if the ground beneath his feet is his. It is a poor imitation of a true conqueror, a woman like Daenerys who thus far has exuded complete confidence and ownership over every foreign land she has treaded. And yet, here in her home, she looks mystifyingly out of place.

“I thought it would feel different,” Daenerys remarked somberly on their first night, after she had scooped the gravelly sand in her palms and torn down Stannis Baratheon’s banners. Although both he and Tyrion were in the room, Varys knew she was speaking to Missandei. “I thought I would remember something.”

“That is not so strange,” Tyrion replied in a comforting tone. “You were a babe when you left.”

“You mean, when I was _taken,”_ she hissed, fire returning to her dead eyes, fire that had no place in this cold, dark place.

“Of course.” Tyrion held up a placating hand; the other was cradling a wine goblet, already half emptied. “But this is your home, Daenerys Stormborn.”

Daenerys hadn’t spoken for some time after, shadows shuttering over her face. That was over a week ago, and the passage of time did not seem to make her any more comfortable. Today she hovers by the window in the map room, her back to them. Once again they have reached a standoff while discussing strategy, and Daenerys has chosen to depart from the discussion. Varys stifles a sigh as he exchanges a meaningful glance with Tyrion.

“My queen,” Tyrion starts again. _“Every_ ruler needs allies.”

Daenerys holds up a hand. “I am tired of speaking of this. I _do_ have an ally— Euron Greyjoy. Neither of you seem pleased with him. I take your advice, but all you have is criticisms.”

“It’s our duty as your advisers to criticize you when needed.” Varys wishes he didn’t have to spend so much time talking circles to her back. “Euron Greyjoy served his purpose.”

“What are you suggesting?”

 _Be rid of him._ After a moment, he decides against speaking his thoughts. Euron is insufferable and Varys finds himself grateful for the long stints when he disappears to one of his ships. He assumes the pirate to be virtually harmless in the grand scale of things— but he would not underestimate him. Better to keep him and their men on their side; better to keep an eye on him.

“I make no suggestions regarding Euron Greyjoy,” Varys says. “But I urge you to make more alliances. Olenna Tyrell, Ellaria Sand, and Jon Snow. They are the most powerful people in Westeros at present… and they all hate Cersei.”

He hears the sigh Daenerys releases, a choked frustrated sound that blends into the cold wind. “I don’t _need_ powerful allies to take the capital. I have my dragons and my armies.”

“It’s true— if you flew now to King’s Landing the red keep would fall in a day.” Daenerys turns then, eyes glittering at Tyrion’s suggestion, and Varys glares at the dwarf. “But Cersei will not surrender easily. And how many men will die because of that?”

Incredulous, she protests, “And having more allies will prevent this loss of life?”

“Perhaps not,” Tyrion acquiesces. “But you will have their peoples’ support when you take the throne.”

“They will be _my_ people then.”

“Yes…” Tyrion looks at Varys helplessly. Just like every other day, they have made no progress with Daenerys. _At least we’ve kept her from climbing onto her dragon’s back and burning everything down. That is no small victory._

“Remember the kind of queen you wish to be.” Daenerys’s eyes are hard as dragon scales as they snap to Varys at his words. “I once told our friend here that you were my choice of ruler because you were stronger than Tommen Baratheon and gentler than Stannis Baratheon.”

“And has that changed?” Challenge burns in her eyes.

“It will if you take King’s Landing by fire.” It is frank, and Varys has always spoken so with her before, but for the first time he feels a spike of fear as he does it. _Curious._ He stows this away for further examination to focus on the task at hand. “The Red Keep cannot be your target at this point in your conquest.”

“Conquest…?” Daenerys arches a brow, but she does not seem angry, only amused. “I am taking back what’s mine.”

* * *

The chill of Dragonstone seeps into her bones. Every day Missandei wakes on this strange island she tells herself she will adapt— she always does— that it could be worse, that it has been so much worse. It is easiest to be optimistic in the mornings. The mornings are the warmest. Her love makes her warm.

It is still a mild shock to wake and find him beside her, arm wound around her back and his nose in her hair. Although Torgo Nudho is sometimes taken with his duties late into the night, she always wakes with him in her bed. In the few days since they confessed their love for each other with their words and their bodies, they have not spent a night apart. _I meet Missandei from the isle of Naath… now I have fear._ Missandei holds him closer. In the mornings, it is easier to dismiss fear. Easier to pretend they were just two lovers; not former slaves, not soldiers.

But the days are cold, and the new wool-lined clothes don’t help much. Daenerys seems similarly impacted. Missandei worries for her. There are conflicts to be resolved as she grows even closer to her goal, but there has always been conflict. In Essos they had dealt with the Sons of the Harpy, the conflicts between the slaves and the masters, and so many men who opposed them— yet Daenerys’s sun was never so dimmed as it is now, on the shores of her supposed “home”. But it is easy to see why that is. The castle is dark and gloomy and wet, the furthest thing in Missandei’s mind from home. She shudders.

She hopes her queen’s spirits will lift soon, but it does not seem likely. Daenerys is in a fouler mood than ever— she has acquiesced to Tyrion and Varys’s demands to write to the Westerosi potential allies. Missandei asks her if she thinks the move unwise. “If so, you should listen to your own judgment,” she advises her, just as she did in Meereen.

Missandei wonders if Daenerys was also acting on her advisers’ counsel when she allied with Euron Greyjoy. She does not care for the man— not at all. His watery eyes make her skin prickle whenever they fall on her. She does not like the way he follows Daenerys with those eyes. Missandei has seen many a man look at the queen with lust, but the glint in Euron’s eyes is more than that. There is something… _hungry_  about it that makes Missandei genuinely fearful.

She finds she can breathe easier whenever he disappears onto his ship, but today is not one of those days. Missandei has just spoken with Daenerys when she stumbles upon him, lounging against the wall with a foot kicked up. It is decidedly nonchalant, and Missandei knows instantly that it is staged. “Where is she?”

“Who do you speak of?” She does not stop walking, but she resists the urge to speed up, just a little.

“You know who…” He follows her, gait long and leisurely.

“She is in the throne room,” she says. “The opposite way.”

“I’m in no rush.” His grin stretches across his face in a way that looks skeletal, fish-like. “I’ve traveled the world, you know… saw many a woman with hair like yours. Not many women in Westeros like you. Where did you come from—”

She feels a tickle and a prick of clammy heat at her neck. She jolts forward, away, realizing a second later he was trying to touch her.

Missandei called out in Valyrian as she walked away: “Are there any of Torgo Nudho’s men who can hear me?” She hopes one of the Unsullied are nearby, and a moment later her wish is answered as a soldier approaches her from the other end of the hall.

“What is it you have need of?” the soldier asks her in Valyrian.

“An escort,” she answers simply, decidedly speeding her step, wishing to put as much distance between herself and Euron Greyjoy as possible.

* * *

That night, Torgo Nudho asks her of the incident. “One of my men tell me you need help from Euron Greyjoy.” 

“Not _help,_ exactly.” Missandei curls her hands around the teacup, relishing the warmth spreading through her fingers. They are sitting on the ground by the fire in her chambers having just completed Torgo Nudho’s reading lessons that she still insists on giving him most nights. She has thought all day about the incident and decided not to mention it to Daenerys. Despite how uncomfortable the man made her, he was Daenerys’s ally, and she doesn’t want to make things difficult for her.

But now Torgo Nudho is pressing her. “Then what happen?”

“Happened,” she gently instructs him. She doesn’t always correct his speech, but she does during their lessons. “He tried to…” Missandei looks down; now she is the one faltering with her speech.

“Yes?” Torgo Nudho’s jaw is set, his low tone impatient.

“He was talking of my appearance… he tried to touch my hair.”

Torgo Nudho is already a man of few words and he is silent now; he rises from the ground in one fluid motion and charges from the room. Missandei hurries after him. “Torgo Nudho!”

His stride is long and quick, and he does not slow for her. Missandei breaks into a run, and when she reaches him pulls on his elbow. “Wait… don’t be hasty, please. He is our queen’s ally.”

“She will not allow this.” His nostrils flare; he looks to and fro restlessly, looks anywhere but at her. “She does not allow men hurt women.”

“I know. That’s why we can’t tell her. She needs him.”

“Why?” His gaze snaps to her then. “He is not a good man.”

Missandei chews on her lip, pondering the question. In truth, she is just as mystified as him. Euron Greyjoy had an arrogance, a crudeness, and a carelessness that reminded her of the masters. Daenerys always stood _against_ men like him, until now…. But, of course, there had been Jorah.

Missandei hates to think of him. She remembers the day she discovered the man was a former slave trader, hence his banishment to Essos. Daenerys had delivered the information casually, but Missandei had felt the ground slip from under her. After, Daenerys had been equal parts distraught and soothing, promising that was no longer the man Jorah was. She had begged her to find it in her heart to forgive him for the actions of his past life.

Missandei couldn’t quite do that, but she hadn’t spoken of it again, even if she was a bit cool to Jorah after that. Then, he had turned out to be a traitor. She had been shocked because his devotion to Daenerys was so obviously true— but she wasn’t surprised he was capable of such deceit. Even a drop of rot will ruin the whole fruit; so they said in Naath.

“She needed him to cross the sea.” Missandei places her other hand on his elbow as his mouth opens to protest. “Westeros is… different. I’m afraid this won’t be the last time we will have to consider a man like that an ally.”

“Do you fear him?”

Missandei takes a moment too long to answer— he turns so fast it’s a blur. “Wait, please!”

He disappears around a corner but she thinks she knows where he is headed. When she enters the map room she finds him there, but only him. He is standing at the very edge, where the wind howls past the windows. A storm is raging. Missandei goes to stand beside him and follows his gaze. It is difficult to see through the night and sleet, but she can see a crowd gathered on the beach, a skiff or two on the dark shore. She glimpses the distinct white of Daenerys’s hair.

“Stay here,” Torgo Nudho tells her in Valyrian. She looks up at him, surprised, and finds his jaw set. _He is only Unsullied now._ “Go to your room. Lock the door.”

She swallows and nods. They walk together to the door and he turns right; she waits a moment then follows.

When she exits the castle she wraps her arms around herself, steeling herself against the cold and the wind. She walks slowly and carefully to the pale sheet of Daenerys’s hair. About two dozen men stand, but there seems to be no fight. No weapons are drawn. They are all standing still. As she draws closer she hears several low murmurs and picks out a high, female voice— Daenerys— and when she draws closer still she can hear the hitch in it. _Is she crying?_ It seems impossible. Missandei quickens her step through the sand that has turned to slush.

“… I return to your service, my queen.”

She is close now; close enough to see that Torgo Nudho has registered her presence, close enough to see Daenerys’s strained expression. Close enough to see the tall, sandy haired man and his solemn, lined face.

Daenerys nods. “It would be my honor, Ser Jorah.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's talk about how Missy never should have been cool with Jorah!!!!  
> and it’s my headcanon that missandei calls grey worm torgo nudho, even in her head <3


	19. my healing needed more than time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188282867816/wolf-circle-north-chapter-19-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Eight" Sleeping At Last.
> 
> Trigger Warning for suicidal thoughts / suicidal ideation. If you prefer to avoid such content, please skip over the first segment of this chapter.

 

_If you’re so broken there’s no coming back, take a knife and cut your wrists._

In his hands there is a dagger. He doesn't have a bow and arrow; they were lost to the relentless crashing of the waves on his body. Somehow the dagger was with him when he washed up on the coast, coughing up salt water til he felt he was choking. Theon stares at the dagger now. There is a ruby red spot from where he pricked his finger to test its sharpness. _I should. I will. I am that broken, I’m weak, rhymes with—_

 _No._ Theon couldn't even think the name. He would never think it again.

The chill is unbearable through his sodden clothes and the dagger shakes in his trembling grip. It's as cold as Winterfell was those last few months, when winter must have been creeping on. To think of winter is to think of Ned Stark, and Theon can't bear to do that. But the rest of his thoughts are Yara, _Yara,_ how he had jumped ship… tears leak from his eyes, mingling with the rest of the salt on his face.

It had been so horrible, so sudden, so— unexpected. Theon thinks he might have been able to handle it better if it hadn’t been so unexpected. _What kind of attack is expected, you fool?_ This wasn’t war anymore. This was demolition.

Euron’s fleet was not a fleet. The dragons transformed it. They didn't release a single burst of flame and yet the sight of them, shrieking against the inky black sky, had Theon shaking uselessly. He forgot how to use a spear or a sword, he forgot that he should be _holding_ a spear or a sword, he forgot about the bow and quiver of arrows strapped to his back, and eventually all sound faded away. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his head, and a cold voice slithered in…

 _No._ He nearly collapsed on the deck, useless. Theon knew it couldn’t be _him,_ but he also didn’t know that. He was unable to do anything more than to wait for whatever was going to happen.

Then it was Euron’s face before him. It was twisted awake with cruel delight like— _like—_

Theon startled awake as if he had been sleeping. He realized Yara was fighting Euron and she was losing. “I have her… come and get her...” It was a hiss like a snake’s and Theon could not look at Yara’s eyes.

He jumped.

He looks at the dagger. _I deserve it,_ he thinks, _I should do it._ Everything he did to the Starks—he thought he started to atone for it when he helped Sansa. But what had he really done for her? Left her to freeze? Left her to travel to the Wall alone? Abandoned her, that’s what he did, abandoned her just as he abandoned Yara. Theon failed them both. Once, he was able to tell himself he saved one sister. Sansa. But he doesn't know what happened to her… _maybe she’s dead._ Just as Yara is surely dead.

_What if she’s not dead?_

Theon doesn’t like that voice, that voice that sounds reasonable and encouraging, that voice that talks like it doesn’t know all the horrible things he’s done. It sounds like Robb’s voice.

_What if you could help her now?_

Theon shakes his head to reject the idea, but a small part of him— the part that swore his sword to Robb, that pushed Myranda from the battlements, that endorsed Yara in the kingsmoot— considers it. He suspects he is somewhere off of Blackwater Bay, near the Kingswood. So close to Dragonstone, where Euron and the dragons and the Targaryen were undoubtedly headed. A skiff could get him there. A skiff could take him to Yara.

_Make your choice, Theon, and do it quickly… run away little Theon…_

It would be so easy to make the cut. Theon stares at the dagger with hate, now, _hating_ it for its simplicity. It would be so easy…

But he doesn’t deserve the easy way.

_I don’t want to be forgiven._

He said those words to Sansa. He told her he was going home. What a mess he’s made of that.

_What do you want, then?_

It is Robb’s voice, again.

_I want to be new._

* * *

On the day Sansa wakes in such pain she can’t leave her bed, she finds herself strangely calm. _This is it. I can’t run from this anymore._

Still, Sansa grits her teeth and tries again and again to leave the bed on her own. She is not helpless, not anymore. She will walk to the maester herself.

She tries to control herself but the pain is searing. The yelps and groans from her efforts prompt her guard to rush in, despite her fevered commands to leave her be.

But the Mormont guard, a man named Jurnor, stands his ground. “I must bring the maester and alert the king right away.”

Sansa was about to agree until she hears the word _king._ “Not Jon,” she says, sharp and panicked.

Jurnor hesitates. “I must.”

Somehow Sansa’s addled mind thinks of a compromise. “Call to Brienne.”

“My lady—”

 _“Brienne,_ she will help me!”

She barely registers Jurnor’s protests as she renews her efforts to leave the bed on her own. Her neck and chest are clammy with sweat, the muscles in her arms shaking as she tries to push herself up. She is dimly aware of the slick feeling under her back and legs—blood, her blood, and maybe something worse. All she knows is that the pain is centered there and her legs will not move.

She looks up and finds, bizarrely, Tormund hovering in the open doorway. He looks at her with undisguised shock, then steps to her guard. “What the fuck is this?”

Jurnor pales at the vulgarity but his chest swells with self-righteousness a moment later. He places a hand on the hilt of his sword. “My lady is ill. _You_ do not belong here.”

“Please,” Sansa moans, surprised at how weak her voice is. “Don’t fight.”

She registers Tormund glaring at Jurnor before moving into the room, his expression softening instantly when he looks at her.

“You can’t go in there!” Jurnor attempts to block Tormund’s way, but the latter pushes him away with no effort, like swatting at a fly.

“Tormund, please summon Brienne.” Sansa attempts to sound as dignified as possible in her current state.

But Tormund will not have it. His face hardens when he moves closer and glimpses the blood. He covers her in furs and then gathers her into his arms.

Sansa is too shocked and pained to react; she can only groan, her tense muscles going limp in surrender.

 _“Which way’s the healing man, boy?”_ Tormund roars, and Sansa has a moment to register her future embarrassment, as surely the entire keep has heard him.

Soon she is descended to another bed and it is Maester Wolkan’s concerned face hovering before her. “My lady… please. Let me treat you.”

Sansa nods, finally surrendering. “Help me.”

* * *

Tormund kicks his feet at nothing in the hall. He got turned around earlier, still not used to grand castles—he doesn’t think he ever will be—when he recognized the hall of Sansa’s chamber and realized he must have gotten lost. He was about to turn around when he realized Sansa’s door was ajar, with no guard in sight.

Tormund knew by way of Jon that Sansa’s door was always meant to be guarded. He moved stealthily for the door but when he heard raised voices, he ran.

He didn’t expect to find Sansa soaking in her own blood.

When he delivered her to the healing man the door was immediately shut, he on the outside. That was hours ago. He supposes he doesn’t need to be here—certainly no one has asked him to stay—but no one has come or gone, either, and that strikes Tormund as strange. He wants to stay in case of trouble, in case the healing man needs something for Sansa and has no one else to send. At the very least he can return Sansa to her bed when it’s all through. He started this, and he won’t leave until it’s finished.

The only thing that tempts him from leaving his position is the thought of Jon. Someone should tell him—the useless boy who argued with him in Sansa’s chamber said he would do it, seemed positively delighted to be charged with the task. But that was a while ago, and Tormund _knows_ Jon would walk out of a battlefield to be at Sansa’s side in her moment of need. So the idiot guard must not have told him yet.

Brienne skids to a stop in front of him. Her eyes are wild. “Is she in there?”

“Aye—”

 _“Thank you.”_ Then she pushes past him so hard his breath leaves his body.

Only a few minutes have passed when Brienne returns from the chamber, but she looks as weary as if it were hours. “The maester needs food,” she says as she moves past him, and Tormund is so surprised she’s speaking to him so normally that for a moment words escape him entirely.

“Wait,” he says—gleefully, _too_ gleeful than what is appropriate. He forces himself to somber considerably. “I’ll do it.”

Brienne looks at the door that hides Sansa as if she wants to consider his offer. “No, that’s alright.”

“It’s nothing,” Tormund insists. He is so eager to do this for her, now that he can finally do something for her. “Sansa would want you by her side. You want that too.”

“The most important thing is that the maester be at his most capable,” she argues, ever the diplomat. Brienne looks uncomfortable and for once Tormund can’t pinpoint why—it isn’t any of the usual reasons he’s come to expect from her. “I’ll be back quickly. I’ll tell the first servant I see.”

It takes Tormund a moment to piece it together. _Ah_. “You think a servant would be more likely to listen to you than a wildling.”

Her eyes soften and then she shrugs and turns her back and the softness is gone.

“Remember what I said at Castle Black,” he calls after her. “Before you rode south.”

“What are you talking about?” she snaps, shouting to be heard down the hall. Or maybe she’s just shouting.

“Think about it,” he says, voice serious as hers. 

Brienne doesn’t answer, sweeping away. Tormund is dizzy with thoughts of her in her absence. She hangs like a cloud around him and he breathes her in. One day in the training yard, a man called her “Brienne the Beauty” and Tormund was inclined to agree; she was the most beautiful woman he ever saw. But he watched Brienne’s mouth frown, he saw Podrick draw himself to his full, unimpressive height like he meant to fight the man. The man said something else, something Tormund couldn’t hear from his place, but it made his friends laugh and Brienne’s head jerk to the ground. Podrick picked up his sword but there was no need.

Tormund crossed the yard in a flash, knocking the wooden sparring sword from the man’s hand. Without preamble, he punched him square in his offending mouth.

Podrick’s jaw near touched the wintry ground, and Brienne— she wore open shock on her face. But then Podrick had smiled wide and Tormund thought he saw something curving Brienne’s mouth, too.

Tormund is startled out of his memories when Jon appears at the end of the hall, looking like bloody murder. He is panting as if he ran straight from the Wall, and for all he knows he might have. Jon strides down the hall quick, his jaw steeled, and it occurs to Tormund for the first time that he may have some explaining to do to Lady Sansa’s brother.

“Her door was open when I passed, I was lost—”

Jon cuts off his explanation with a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” Jon says gruffly when he pulls away— sniffling, not meeting his eyes. “She’s— I would have—I can’t—”

Tormund decides to put the little king out of his misery. “I know. Go to her.”

* * *

Sansa wakes slowly, in degrees. At first there is the orange glow of the setting sun coming in from the window, setting the patch of furs her eyes are settled on aflame. She bunches her fingers and knows by the familiar softness that she is in her own bed. She closes her eyes for a moment but when she opens them everything is different—the room is plunged in darkness and her whole body aches. For a moment her mind places her in a different time, _Ramsay,_ and she mistakenly thinks she is in his clutches. But the pain was so much sharper then, consuming, and there isn’t that wet feeling of blood.

“Sansa.”

That isn’t Ramsay’s voice, either, and a total calm consumes her. She tries to force her eyes to sharpen, to find him in the darkness, so that she can be sure. But her eyes fail, so she asks, “Jon?”

“Aye.”

She hears a rustle and a moment later, Jon has lit a candle. It’s only one candle but she squints at the sudden brightness. Jon’s face materializes before her, his eyes red and his face lined with exhaustion. His beard is long and unkempt. It’s a shock to see him that way, and her first instinct is concern.

“Are you alright?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper she does not recognize.

 _“Me?”_ His voice sounds wet. She watches his throat move. He runs a hand over his face and holds it over his mouth. His brows come together and there is such naked pain in his downcast eyes.

“Jon, what…” She trails off as she swallows, her throat scratching as if lined with tree bark.

“Here…” Jon reaches for something beyond them and a moment later his hand is warm behind her neck, lifting her head to drink from the cup he holds to her lips. She sucks at it greedily until Jon pulls it away, muttering something in a low voice, something about how she’ll make herself sick.

“What happened?” she asks after he has lowered her head gently to the pillows and returned to his chair at her bedside.

“You don’t remember?”

“I do, I think… I was with the maester…” Her cheeks flame as something returns to her. “Tormund…”

“Aye.”

“Oh, gods…” She wants to cover her face in embarrassment, but her hands feel weighed down where they lay on top of the furs, like lead.

“Don’t worry. Brienne and I have explained your absence. No one is talking.”

She licks her lips which are already dry again, despite the drink of water. She studies him— the too-rigid line of his shoulders and the tiny downward curl of his lip. “You’re angry with me.”

He releases a sigh, a huff of air that seems to deflate him, until all that’s left in the chair is a weary string of bones. “No. Not—not at you. But… Sansa, I asked you to let the maester help you. I begged you.”

Sansa isn’t sure why she’s defensive, why her voice comes out cold. “I said I would try. And I did.”

Her defensiveness raises his own. “Maester Wolkan said you had an infection. An infection could kill you.”

“Anything could kill me!”

“I don’t understand! Is that what you _want?”_ He swipes his hand over his face, a furious motion that does nothing to calm the craze in his eyes. “It’s already dangerous enough! Why would you risk— _yourself?”_

Sansa almost laughs— a dark, wry laugh. “Do you _hear_ yourself? _You’re_ the one risking your life, involving yourself with the knights and free folk, threatening Littlefinger—” His jaw tics at the hateful name. “—yes, do you think I don’t have my suspicions about that bruise on his face? And soon, you will _throw yourself_ at the Night King.”

He takes a moment to compose himself before speaking, but there is still a vibrating thread of fury to his voice. “I can’t ask my men to fight, to risk their lives, when I wouldn't do the same.”

The images that flicker through her mind flood her with panic— Jon’s body, lifeless— she swallows furiously around her burning throat. She remembers how she tried to shame Joffrey into fighting in the vanguard, in the hopes that he would die.

Now she will do the opposite.

“You wouldn’t just _fight…”_ Sansa hates the words that are going to leave her mouth. _Cersei Littlefinger Margaery Tyrion Olenna._ “You would do whatever was necessary to defeat him.”

They both know what she means. He stares at her levelly, eyes dark. “Would you ask anything else of me?”

 _No._ And yes. She would not ask him to be anything but honorable, but himself, but she _must—_ she would ask him to become anything, anything that saved him from death. Even something as selfish as her.

“I would ask you to live. Just as you asked me.”

Something lights up in his eyes— then it’s gone. “Aye, I asked you, and still you let it get to this point. Don’t you know…” He swallows visibly. “We only just found each other. We’re the only ones left.”

Sansa sucks in a gasp. “Don’t say that!”

“I don’t want it to be true.” Jon’s voice is ragged. “But you are the only Stark that sits before me, and I _will_ keep you safe.”

“Jon.” She is empty, weary of arguing. “I tried. I went to the maester with the intention of keeping my word. But… I couldn’t do it. It took me back in time… it was too painful.”

 _“Sansa…”_ His hands reach out to cradle one of hers where it lays upon the furs— he stares at it, as if he cannot bear to look at her. “I wish I could kill him. I wish he was alive so I could—” He chokes. _“—flay_ him for what he did to you.”

“It’s already done. I took his head.” She curls her fingers towards his, shocking him into looking at her. “You gave it to me.”

“Aye, it’s done. And you will never know suffering again.”

In that moment, she believes him.

 

 


	20. I surrender who I've been to who you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188333301311/wolf-circle-north-chapter-20-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Turning Page" Sleeping At Last.

 

Sansa is bedridden for nearly a fortnight, and the King in the North is doubly busy in her absence. He is glad for it. She sleeps for large amounts of the day and night, as if regaining all the rest she’s denied herself, and when she’s awake her cheeks have a hint of color. With every passing day her health increases, even if she isn’t able to do much more than sit up and badger him about the affairs of Winterfell. If she was capable of it, Jon knows she would be attempting to escape her bedrest and resume her duties. But she isn’t, and this both pains and relieves him.

Sansa’s pain is his own suffering, but nothing can keep him from her bedside— nothing but a crown. For the first two days Jon barely left her side, with Brienne as his occasional companion. Davos tried to persuade him to return to his duties, but the word lost all meaning for once, and Davos eventually relented, bringing him only urgent matters to Sansa’s bedside. Only Brienne’s apt argument that having so much disruption near Sansa might hinder her healing convinced Jon to step away. Ghost remained in his stead.

If Ghost was Sansa’s shadow before, he can not be tempted from her side now. He is another mass of fur on her bed, a permanent fixture, and Jon is glad for it— he’s heard of Littlefinger’s attempts to see her. Her guards are, thankfully, unyielding, but knowing the slick fucker Jon was glad for Ghost’s presence so near to Sansa.

Littlefinger isn’t the only one. The story is that Sansa’s ill with a contagion, to provide reason for her being sequestered. Still, it isn’t enough to dissuade people from seeking audiences with her. Jon learns that Lord Glenmore is trying to see Sansa, that his attempts are numerous and unrelenting. Lord Glenmore is courteous and responsible, a good fighter, the head of a smaller house who answered the call. Jon liked the man, until Davos told him of his interest in Sansa. He likes him even less now. When they first cross paths Jon seizes the opportunity to confront him.

Lord Glenmore separates himself from his company and crosses the yard as soon as Jon calls his name. “Your grace. How is Lady Sansa?”

The familiar manner of concern over Sansa irritates Jon, rubbing up against the part of him that compelled him to confront Lord Glenmore in the first place.

“Lady Sansa is recovering. She shouldn’t be disturbed.”

He doesn’t look discouraged. “Of course. I have some news for her… news she was longing for.”

Jon nearly flinches. What does this man, this guest in their home, this _stranger,_ know of Sansa’s longings?

“I have assumed Lady Sansa’s responsibilities for now. Your news, you can share it with me.”

“I know she’d be eager to hear it right away.”

His stubbornness only stokes Jon’s own. He smiles tightly, his “diplomatic” smile that Sansa says looks like a grimace. “I’ll tell her.”

Lord Glenmore looks at him for a moment. He doesn’t have to say it for Jon to know. He wants to be the one to deliver this news to Sansa, this thing she is _longing_ for. He wants to curry favor with her. And if Jon was anyone else, anyone but the king, then this persistent man would never give up his perceived advantage.

Lord Glenmore nods in surrender, then chuckles. “She is fortunate to have such a caring brother.”

The small taste of victory in Jon’s mouth turns sour. _Brother._ Did Lord Glenmore use that word intentionally, a blow in retaliation for intercepting his news? Does he _know—_

 _Know what? There_ _’s nothing to know._

“Your news?” His voice is tight.

“Yes…. Tell Lady Sansa the gardens have begun to yield fruit. She will be happy to hear it.”

The familiarity rankles him— _as if he knows anything about how to make Sansa happy._  

Jon goes to the glass gardens  immediately, walking them in search of— yes, he finds it, the small trees that reach his waist. He stoops to pick several of the bright yellow fruits, filling his pockets and even folding his cloak over to create a sort of pouch, then takes the precious cargo directly to the kitchens, where he delivers it along with instructions.

* * *

The smell reaches her first. A sweet, sharp smell, a scent Sansa hasn’t known since the Vale, since Aunt Lysa had plied her with sweets only to make accusations and tears. Ghost perks up too, raising his large head to sniff the air for a moment, before dismissively dropping down to the furs.

Then Jon materializes out of the shadows, a tray balanced between his hands. Her heart surges. "Lemon cakes?”

She’s already smiling. He’s smiling too. “The glass gardens are a success. They’ve begun to bear fruit.”

Sansa feels dizzy from the news, from sleeping all day, from the overpowering smell. “Really? Are the vegetables sprouting? The trees were easier…” She bites her lip, wishing she was well so she could run to the gardens now. Everything was imported from the Reach, and most of the fruit trees had done fairly well, but many of the plants had died on the journey. Some would take years to regrow. “The turnips and radishes are the fastest to grow… are they ready for harvest?”

“I’ll let you know tomorrow. I’ll bring you a full report, if it will ease your mind.”

His voice is touched with mirth even if his eyes are serious and warm. Sansa feels sheepish at her obsessive questions. “That’s alright. I’m sure you don’t have time. It's not important.”

“It is important. We can better feed our people now.”  He’s reached her side, settles the fragrant tray piled high with round cakes and two cups of tea on her bedside table. “But this is the most important bit.”

Warmth spreads in her chest, touches her cheeks. He can’t mean it, that something as trivial as feeding her lemon cakes is more important than feeding their people. It’s an exaggeration, a string of sweet words meant to endear, meant to express… what? Why would he say such things, why would he even bother? Why would he say it so seriously, his eyes so tender and soft as they tend to be when it’s just the two of them and the candlelight?

“Here.” He spreads a soft square cloth over her lap before reaching for the tray, passing to her one of the cakes.

“Sweets in bed?” Sansa giggles. “Mother would be horrified.”

She doesn’t know why— if it was her intention— but suddenly she and Jon aren’t looking at each other. When she takes the first bite out of the lemon cake, her eyes roll back into her head.

_“Jon…”_

He chuckles. “That good?”

She nods fervently, speaking around the morsel in her mouth in a most unladylike manner. “Please, try it.”

“They’re for you.”

“There’s a dozen at least…” Sansa suspects she could have finished the tray on her own, but she doesn’t want to. “Please share this with me.”

The words convince him, and they spend the night in her bed, crumbs and the first sparks of something resembling true happiness between them.

* * *

It is a balm to his soul, to be reunited with his queen. To have her welcome him into her arms, after so long apart from her, after all that pain at the Citadel. _This is where I belong._ He is whole.

Jorah didn’t expect to return to find everything the same, but he didn’t quite expect it to be so different either. He is surprised at Daario’s absence, but then again Jorah knew his love was shallow. He is surprised at Euron Greyjoy’s place at Queen Daenerys’s side, surprised her advisers supported it. But the biggest shock is the Hand pin, silver gleaming, upon Tyrion’s chest.

Once he believed he would be Queen Daenerys’s Hand. _When I take the seven kingdoms, I need you by my side._ Those were her words… and she hasn’t yet taken the throne, despite her heralded place as Queen by them all. If she only waited to choose her Hand until she sat on the Iron Throne, he could have been by her side….

But he wasn’t by her side, and he supposes he’s the only one he can blame for that.

He will never leave her side now.

Tyrion Lannister doesn’t appreciate his exalted place. He spends more time drinking and whispering with Varys than at their queen’s side. He seems saddened, exasperated, drunk. Varys is no better, although the man’s eyes are never dulled by drink. But he is frustrated, constantly, and as Jorah stands at Daenerys’s elbow in the map room he thinks, _if this is how it_ _’s been, no wonder she seems so miserable._

“It would be an advantageous move,” Varys repeats himself. He has been urging Queen Daenerys to visit some key locations in Westeros with a retinue of men, to endear herself to the lords and their people.

“Trying to get me out of Dragonstone, is more like it,” Daenerys confided in him one night, a wry twist to her mouth. “I don’t trust him.”

“I believe you should trust your instincts,” Jorah replied. “But you chose him to be your adviser for a reason.”

“You like his plan?” Daenerys’s eyebrows rose. “You think his little trip would be wise? Me, traveling alone through the country?”

“You won’t be alone.” No matter where she goes, he will follow.

“He wants me to go without my dragons or my armies. I _would_ be alone.”

Now they're arguing the matter once more, and with every discussion Jorah dislikes Varys’s plan more and more. It _would_ be unsafe; so far Daenerys has been in high unreachable places, fortresses and pyramids, always protected. He can count the instances where this wasn’t the case on one hand; on the ground in the fighting pits, in the old days as Khaleesi. Whether it was the Sons of the Harpy or poisoned wine, her life was in danger.

“I think it’s an awful idea.” Euron is present today, sauntering around the borders of the room, refusing to stay in one place like the rest of them. “You don’t need to waste your time talking to high lords, and especially not the peasants.”

“I disagree,” Varys retorts. “The way you endear yourself to the smallpeople and earn their loyalty is one of your greatest strengths.”

“The people will fall in line when I take the throne. They will see that I offer them freedom.”

“There is some wisdom to it, your grace,” Tyrion says. “Out of Dragonstone, moving, you would not be an easy target.”

“Target? Who would target me? Cersei? Let her, and we can finish this. Or perhaps I should end it…”

Once again Tyrion starts to argue against attacking King’s Landing and Jorah watches Queen Daenerys’s patience thin to a thread. She is frustrated. She is tired.

Jorah was the one to bring Tyrion to Daenerys’s camp— despite his complicated feelings towards the man, he is well aware of his merits. But Varys’s assets are not so definite. Jorah can only be grateful that Varys will soon be leaving Dragonstone. He wishes Euron Greyjoy would leave too.

* * *

Everyone is, of course, insufferable. The council at Dragonstone seems to only reach impasse after impasse, and Varys feels unease when he thinks of how stagnated they are. But no matter. He will soon be leaving to Highgarden.

Ellaria Sand agreed, in the most reluctant manner possible— Varys was surprised when Daenerys didn’t throw the scroll into the fire at the insult— to travel to Dragonstone to meet with her. She made no other promises, no guarantee of alliance, but Varys was… cautiously optimistic. Ellaria Sand had no reason to side with Cersei, and they were the strongest force against her. It would only serve her purposes to join them.

Olenna Tyrell, however, had sent no reply whatsoever, not until Varys wrote her privately. To learn that she had simply not replied to Daenerys out of … spite or pettiness or whatever was not surprising— she was the Queen of Thorns, after all— but Varys was glad Daenerys didn’t know.

The Tyrell matriarch could not be persuaded to make the trip to Dragonstone, and Daenerys could not be persuaded to leave. Varys felt backed into a corner, but he had been in worse places, and a solution came to him. He would make the trip to Highgarden himself.

Daenerys had been surprised at his suggestion, but Tyrion and even Jorah had supported it. The Reach’s health was the best thing for the realm, so he wanted Highgarden on their side, the winning side, the _surviving_ side, because who could win against dragons?

* * *

While Sansa is bedridden, her guards report to Jon; a fact that does not escape Sansa’s notice nor her thinly veiled criticism, even in her current state. “This won’t continue,” she tells him one night, even as he serves her lemon cakes once more. “You know that.”

Jon quirks a brow, attempting to appear unconcerned, although unease roils in his gut. He trusts Sansa; he trusts her implicitly. But why does she insist on such singular control over certain things—why are all of his men and his tasks and his time hers to command as well, while he retains no knowledge or control over her doings or her men, when he is their king?

“You don’t want them reporting to me when you’re well?” He knows the answer, but he wants to hear it plain from her. “Wouldn’t want me to know your comings and goings?”

“It’s not that.” Her hands are in her lap atop the furs, twitching towards each other. “No one can serve two people. Everyone knows that. They can’t report to both of us.”

“Fine.” Jon struggles for control; he doesn’t want to show her he’s unhappy with this, especially when she’s still healing and he should be nothing but a comfort to her. “Keep your secrets.”

Sansa flinches. Even before the hurt takes over her face Jon regrets his words. They were petty and instinctual, beneath him and her.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jon steps away from her bedside. She might not know it, but she returned the blow. The words are insulting and _incorrect_ and too close to another’s, and Sansa’s hair is so brilliantly red even in the dimness of the bedchamber in winter, and suddenly his skin feels tight and he can’t be in the same room as her a second longer.

It was a morning visit, and Jon doesn’t return to Sansa’s chamber until late in the night. He had foregone many of his tasks that day to train voraciously in the yard for much longer than was responsible, sweating out his frustrations. He enters Sansa’s chamber with a bowed head, an apology on his lips, and another plate of lemon cakes.

“You spoil me.”

“No.” He doesn’t do enough. 

Sansa must see something in his face because the smile disappears from hers. This has happened more than one as she lay on her sickbed; an unrelated conversation suddenly delving into her assuring him she was well now. She is good, _too_ good, at reading him. 

“Jon… it’s in the past. I’ll be better now. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

“I can’t do that,” he admits quietly. An internal shield rises, an instinct attempting to shame him, to protect him. _Enough,_ it says, a word he has been steadily ignoring.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is an olympic sport ya'll, writing anti-dany from the povs of characters who love her. I'm sweating. lol
> 
> leave a comment!


	21. new beginning with the same sweet shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188457683101/wolf-circle-north-chapter-21-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Be" Hozier. Eeeep I'm so excited for the next chunk of chapters! 
> 
> I wanted to let you guys know that I post [little edits for each chapter along with my writing updates for this story on my tumblr!](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/tagged/wolf-circle-north) I was also tagged in an [ author interview](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188085245081/author-interview) where I talked a lot about process for writing this fic, if you're interested!

 

In the bath, Sansa has two companions, where she used to have none. Ghost stands by her tub as if guarding it, and when she stretches out an arm absentmindedly he licks the moisture from her hand. These days Ghost cannot be tempted by anything to leave her, and although Sansa worries over the direwolf being confined to such a small space as her chambers for so many hours, she is grateful for him. He will return to the cold, to his more normal comings and goings, when she doesn’t need him as she does now. 

Her other companion is Brienne. In the days and nights she was confined to the bed, Brienne’s healing hands were second to the maester’s. Although she has no healing skills to speak of, she asked the maester questions and displayed total willingness to do anything he asked of her. Now that Sansa is moving again, it’s Brienne who applies balms to the places Sansa cannot reach.  

Sansa feels little trepidation when she bares her wounds and scars to Brienne. After sharing such an experience, it’s easy to trust her in this new way. 

This new closeness has certainly made it easier to seek Brienne’s counsel, as she is always nearby, as she is now. As Sansa soaks, she seeks Brienne’s opinion on the matter of the knights and wildlings conflict, which was brought to her attention that day by a tense Davos.

“Ser Wydman sought an audience with me today. Making threats.”

_“Threats?”_

“Not to me. Threatening to leave the keep, is all.”

“What does he _want?_ _”_

“He says he wants justice,” Sansa says. “What he _really_ wants is for Jon and I to exile the free folk.”

“It’s strange that the northern lords aren’t the ones asking for ‘justice,’” Brienne replies thoughtfully. “It was northern girls the free folk attacked, not Vale girls.”

Sansa doesn’t correct Brienne, doesn’t present her theory that she doesn’t think the free folk attacked the girls at all. As she has no alternative explanation, she refrains from comment. “They aren’t noble, any of those girls. They’re from poor families in Wintertown.” Sansa thinks of Reina Perek as she scrubs her neck with soap.

“What do _they_ want? The girls?”

Sansa feels a prick of shame, as she hasn't made an effort to learn the answer to this question. Besides Reina, whose face always lights up with a smile when she sees Sansa in the halls, she hasn't spoken to the other women. She makes up her mind to get more information, not just from the girls but from the knights and the free folk involved; this matter has to be put to bed, the burden eased from Jon’s back. There’s already so much weight he’s carrying.

“My lady?”

“It will be dealt with,” Sansa says absentmindedly.

“Let me help.”

Sansa gives her a kind smile. Brienne, too, is stretched thin. With a Valyrian steel sword and nearly unequaled fighting prowess, she spends many hours training new Northern soldiers or learning from Jon how to fight White Walkers. “You are too valuable where you are.”

“I am most valuable helping you. Protecting you.” 

“You _do_ protect me. You don’t have to worry when you’re not by my side. I have my guards, and Podrick... even Ghost.” She looks fondly at the great direwolf, her guard for true.

Brienne looks away as Sansa rises from the bath, the water gone cold. “I would like to suggest, then… Podrick would be more useful in the training yards and guarding you.”

Sansa considers this as she dresses for bed. “You think he should be removed from watching the ravens?”

“His technique is improving. More importantly, I know he would lay down his life for you. I don’t know about these other guards.”

“Mormont men have their skills,” Sansa says with a quirk of her lips. She thinks of Jurnor, the guard who found her the morning she finally agreed to see the maester, who was fond of walking into rooms before she did to secure their safety.

“I would feel much better knowing Podrick was watching _you_ than watching ravens.”

“It’s quite an important task,” Sansa counters lightly, not showing the immense worry she feels over the change. Littlefinger’s communications are still slipping past her, and who knows what else slips past her too. Her current efforts are clearly inadequate. “I will move Podrick,”

Brienne nods, then gives her a stern look. “There’s something else.”

* * *

The ache in Jon’s neck pinches, his hands cramp, his hair is at an uncomfortable length—he reminds himself for the tenth time to trim it in the morning before the day starts—yet when he sinks into his bed it all disappears, his eyes slipping closed almost instantly. That is the one good thing about the consuming weariness; it leaves no room for nightmares.

When a rapid knock descends on his bedroom door he almost groans in displeasure. With a huff he gets to his feet and opens the door. The irritation evaporates as soon as he sees her. “Sansa!”

She is flushed with color and her hair is dark and damp, pressed to her head, and has he ever seen her like this? Her eyes are lit with fury and even though he saw her just this morning, he feels how he missed her.

Before he can ask her what is wrong—something is clearly wrong—or do anything except flounder with his mouth half open at her state, she pushes past him. A whiff of something light and floral accompanies her, wafting from her loose hair and skin, and is her skin damp too? He swallows and closes the door.

“The Karstarks? The _Umbers?_ _”_ Sansa stands by his bed, shaking with fury, in a pale robe much too thin. “Tell me it isn’t true, Jon.”

Jon sighs—and her answering groan is so guttural his stomach drops. He shakes his head to clear it, nauseated with himself. _Focus._

“They are two of the largest houses in the north. I have to treat with them, Sansa. I’m their king.”

“And are you a king who invites traitors to his keep?”

Jon nearly scoffs; he has no idea what kind of king he is, and the idea of answering such a question hurts his head. He supposes he _is_ that kind of king, as that’s exactly what he’s done.

He strides to her without thinking. Her proud chin rises the closer he gets to her. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, all weariness gone from his body which pulses with new energy, the insistence to make her _see,_ the desire to persuade her.

“Last Hearth sits between us and the Wall. If the Umbers don’t join us, they will join the army of the dead.”

“They betrayed us!” Her chest is rising rapidly with the force of her anger, drawing his eye until he catches himself. “Robb would have had them hanged as oathbreakers. And that’s the least of their crimes.”

“Smalljon Umber and Harald Karstark betrayed us. They’re both dead,” Jon says. “The new lords are children. We _need_ their men.”

“We don’t,” Sansa objects.

“Believe me, Sansa…. we do. We need every fighter we can get.”

The conviction in his voice does nothing to appease her. Her eyes are blazing, by far the brightest thing in the darkened room. There is no light but that of the dying fire and a single candle by his bed, casting much of her in shadow, bathing the rest of her in a warm glow.

When she speaks her voice is determined, thick with emotion. “The Umbers _gave_ Rickon to Ramsay. I can’t forget that. Promise me you won’t either.”

His chest clenches at the mention of their little brother, at the pain in her voice. “I promise. I haven’t made any decisions.”

Sansa almost rolls her eyes, a small huff leaving her lips. “Not good enough.”

“I make promises seriously, Sansa. That’s all I can give you now.”

She breaks eye contact then, looking away from him with the most forlorn expression on her face. Jon aches to wipe it away, to give her anything she likes if it will make her smile, but he can’t. The need to protect her is stronger—the reminder of the Night King, of his duty to the north. Her arms hover at her sides for a moment before joining at her middle, hugging herself, pushing her breasts—

“You’re cold,” Jon says, eyes averted now too, face burning. “I’ll walk you to your chambers.”

“There’s no need,” Sansa says, hoarse but cutting. She sweeps past him and Jon stands still for a moment, his throat working furiously as her scent assaults him once more. He swallows his frustration and his self-loathing and walks to the door, intent on confirming that Brienne is accompanying her—concern spikes him as he thinks of her walking the keep in the middle of the night in that thin sleeping robe. He makes it in time to see her round the corner with one of her Mormont men, and his relief at her safety is marred with something darker than worry. 

* * *

Sansa picks at her fish stew, bringing a spoonful to her lips to find it has already gone cold. She is bundled in one of her thicker dresses, a new creation with brilliantly red weirwood leaves at the collar and crawling up her arms, yet the chill still finds its way underneath to touch her skin. She doesn’t mind. She wouldn’t trade a single one of these cold nights in Winterfell’s great hall for a hundred warm evenings in King’s Landing.

“Here.” Jon pushes his bowl in front of her, eyes knowing and gentle. Wisps of steam curl from its surface.

“Oh.” Sansa’s spine instantly stiffens at this kindness. “No, I can’t. Thank you.”

“I’ve had my fill,” Jon says, reaching for his ale. The way he feigns casualness is so endearing Sansa almost caves. She hasn’t been _rude,_ exactly, since their unresolved late night confrontation regarding Jon’s invitation to the disloyal northern houses—but she hasn’t been herself, either. Jon’s response to her changed behavior seems to be increased vigilance and tender acts such as this; curling his cloak on top of her own when they are outside, commanding Ghost to accompany her when he is already usually there, bringing her tea at odd moments of the day, and Sansa is almost tempted to forgive and forget just to get him to stop.

“Eat, Sansa,” Jon tries again. “It’s hot.”

Sansa shakes her head just as Reina approaches the head table, smiling. She swipes both bowls of stew onto a tray.

“Lady Sansa hasn’t eaten,” Jon protests.

“That’s quite all right.”

 “I’ll bring you a new one, my lady… your grace.” With a bow of her head Reina walks away.

They sup in the great hall tonight, which means both Sansa and Jon are distracted as a myriad of people approach the head table for unofficial audiences. Lord Royce brings up a small matter that cannot wait until morning, and he exchanges a few stiff words before leaving. A wildling woman Sansa vaguely remembers from her scattered visits to the wildling camps, named Vrewa, argues with Jon in an increasingly louder voice until Tormund draws her away. Several knights of the Vale exchange words with her. Among the visitors is Maester Wolkan, who approaches from the back as he always does, passing a scroll into Sansa’s hand. Her eyes jump to his. “Is this urgent?”

“From King’s Landing,” he whispers.

Although there could be no more than thirty diners in the room Sansa feels exposed, as if their eyes and all the eyes in Winterfell have turned to her. She stares at the scroll in her lap, cradled like a baby bird in her palms. She nearly jumps when she feels Jon’s breath at her ear. “What’s wrong?”

She unfurls the scroll and reads it much too quickly, her eyes jumping over the neatly penned words. She shoves it into Jon’s hand, still staring down at nothing, and starts when Jon’s hand curls over her trembling one.

“Sansa,” he says, voice raw with concern.

She cannot look at him yet, not with so many people around—can’t stand the way his concern strips her, the way it invites her to just _be._ “I’m fine, Jon. Look.”

He takes the scroll and when she finally looks up at him his eyes are deadened, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Robb received one like it, when Robert Baratheon died,” Sansa says, compelled by some reason to confess. “Written by my hand.”

The softness in Jon’s gaze nearly breaks her. She wishes he would be angry, she wishes she could atone. “Remember what we talked about? You’re not to blame.”

The echo of her words to him in the crypts on the night he was crowned king pulls a startled laugh from her. She presses her fingertips to her lips. Suddenly she feels dizzy. “Cersei Lannister sits on the Iron Throne. She wants you to go south and bend the knee.”

“I won’t.”

“I know that,” she snaps, before berating herself for the slip of control. Still, when she speaks there is a slight shudder in her voice. “We’ve been so focused on the enemy to the north we forgot about the enemy to the south.” 

“If you saw the Night King, you’d think of little else too.”

“I haven’t seen the Night King but I’ve seen Cersei. I’ve seen a lot of Cersei.” A cruel not-smile twists her mouth. “Don’t underestimate her.”

“Hers is a southern army. Winter is here.”

“Winter is no match for her wrath.” The words are clipped and harsh. “She’s convinced I killed her son. She’s found a way to murder every one of her enemies.”

Jon takes a moment to answer. “She won’t be able to get to you. Not here.” He says it like a promise.

A kitchen girl who isn’t Reina arrives with a new steaming bowl of soup but Sansa has never been less hungry. Still, she offers her a weak smile of thanks.

Jon rises to his feet. “I must speak with Davos. Will you be alright?”

“Yes.”

A backwards glance makes it seem like he is loathe to leave her; Sansa shies away from the way that twists her insides. Just as he reaches the end of the room where Davos sits, Podrick approaches her. Despite his ruddy cheeks and dimmed eyes undoubtedly caused by the tankard of ale in his hand, he speaks levelly and with concern. “My lady? Are you well?”

“Am I so easy to read?” She presses a hand to her cheek and finds it alarmingly warm. Podrick’s eyes have widened at her response. “I’m well, Podrick. There are some things I wish to discuss with you. Please, sit with me.”

Podrick’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline. He places his ale on the table to wring his hands, sputtering, “My lady, I can’t.”

Sansa doesn’t have the energy to argue. “Very well. I hear you’ve become a skilled swordsman.”

He smiles, his cheeks reddening further.

“I’m considering removing you from your monitoring duties so that you may train soldiers. Brienne and Jon approve. Would you like that?”

Podrick’s eyes boggle, undeniable delight in them. “You mean it?”

“I do.”

Podrick reaches for his ale again as if he needs the liquid courage before he can express his happiness over this news. Sansa sighs internally; she knew Brienne was right to suggest this, she knew Podrick would be happy, but she is at a loss for a person to replace him. There isn’t anyone else she trusts to monitor the ravens—it will now be entirely left to her Mormont men.

“Lady Sansa, I would be honored… to… I would like…”

The words are choked off. Podrick rubs at his throat, coughing as he staggers a few paces back.

Sansa’s heart beats faster. “Podrick? Podrick, do you need water?”

His coughs turn into desperate gasps. Crimson splotches rise on his face. Sansa jumps to her feet. “Podrick!”

His eyes bulge in his head, turning red. He spits up blood.

_“Podrick!”_

Her wrenching scream arrests the room, leaving dead silence in its wake. The thump as Podrick’s body hits the floor is deafening.

Then there is chaos, rushing and clamoring and yelling, but all Sansa hears is her heartbeat raging in her ears as she fists her skirts in her hands and climbs over the table. She throws herself over Podrick’s body, screaming for Maester Wolkan, for help. Veins pop in his neck, in his eyes, the red splotches on his face turning purple.

The world slows to a single point as horrid recognition floods her. Sansa wrenches the chain she wears from her neck, unscrewing the needle with clammy hands that refuse to work. When it is finally, blessedly open she reaches with one shaking hand for Podrick’s foaming mouth, trying to hold it open. The needle almost slips, her heart falling to her stomach in that single terrifying moment, and before she can scream again familiar hands are holding Podrick’s lips apart.

 _Jon, Jon, Jon is here,_ the nonsensical mantra pounds in her head as she upends the needle, the liquid within trickling past Podrick’s lips.

 


	22. found a place to rest my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188507685501/wolf-circle-north-chapter-22-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Never Let Me Go" Florence + the Machine.

 

Podrick is still, his face a myriad of pink and red and that awful purple. His chest does not move at all. Brienne is hunched over Podrick’s body like a human shield, not responding to Maester Wolkan’s hand on her shoulder or his polite requests. He looks at her with pleading eyes. “Lady Sansa…”

Sansa moves to the bed to help him. “Brienne, please come away, just for a moment.” Her throat is raw from screaming and every word is a pain. Her hand on Brienne’s arm is no more effective than the maester’s. “Brienne, the maester wants to help him.”

With a cry Brienne wrenches herself from the body, putting her fist at her mouth to stifle the sound. Her face is a twist of pain.

Sansa has never seen her like this. She watches her friend with a tight chest as Maester Wolkan conducts his examination.

“He’ll live.”

At the maester’s declaration Brienne cries out in relief, covering her face with both hands. Spent, she sinks into a chair, shoulders shaking.

Across the room where Brienne cannot hear, Maester Wolkan confirms what Sansa already knows, what the purple splotches and the antidote she wears around her neck confirmed to her. “It was The Strangler.”

Sansa nods as suspicions and questions flood her brain. She shoves them aside to place a hand on the maester’s elbow, just for a moment, enough to communicate her gratitude. “You did _excellent_ work. If you didn’t make that antidote…”

Maester Wolkan shakes his head modestly. “I only followed your commands. I was surprised… that is, to know you carry the antidote, every day.”

She smiles tightly, her eyes moistening again. If she _hadn_ _’t_ been carrying it—or if she’d been carrying the wrong antidote…

He is quick to add, “Thank the gods you do.”

When the maester has left Sansa finally sinks into a chair, across from Brienne whose chair has been pushed as close as it can get to the bed. She is slumped within it, the lack of posture looking so strange on the rigid, proud woman. Sansa asks her if she needs anything, she offers tea and water, she offers comforting meaningless words. Brienne merely shakes her head in response, until Sansa settles into the quiet.

The Strangler—the poison that killed Joffrey. _Cersei._ It makes logical sense, Sansa thinks grimly. There’s a reason Sansa chose to wear _that_ antidote around her neck. A part of her always thought Cersei would attempt to kill her this way; it’s the exact poetic vengeance Cersei loves.

She wants to laugh at the irony of Cersei making a move so quickly, mere minutes after she learned she sits on the Iron Throne.

But _how?_ Could she have sent an assassin from King’s Landing, or was she in communications with a northerner? What exactly had been poisoned, and how did Podrick ingest it? The only thing Sansa remembers him ingesting was ale, which Sansa was not drinking. If the poison was meant for her, how did it reach Podrick?

One thing Sansa knows for sure is that sweet, innocent Podrick could not have been the target. There was something else at play, and he was caught in the crossfire.

She starts when Brienne’s whisper cuts through the darkness. “Thank you.”

Brienne is thanking her for saving Podrick’s life when it was Sansa’s poison he drank, Sansa’s fault he was hurt in the first place. She wants to fist her hands in her hair and scream, but all she does is bite her lip.

“Don’t thank me, Brienne.”

“Then I thank the gods for you. You saved him.”

Sansa tries to smile. “Thank the gods.”

Brienne presses her hands to her eyes, a clear gesture of exhaustion. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t _know,_ exactly. But I suspected… I wanted to be prepared…” Sansa falters, unsure how much she should say.

“Cersei.”

Shocked, Sansa stares at her friend. “I was there,” Brienne says bitterly.

All Sansa remembered from that terrible day was the shock, fleeing with Dontos, Littlefinger—but of course Brienne would have her own recollections.

“Do you think it was her?” Sansa asks.

Brienne presses her lips together. “I care more about what you think.”

“It might have been Cersei,” Sansa says after a long pause. _It was almost certainly Cersei._ But she doesn’t want to give Brienne an answer that could be false, not until they have more information.

“But Cersei isn’t here. And someone _here_ poisoned him.” Sansa meets her sworn shield’s bloodshot eyes. “And we’ll find that person, Brienne. I promise you.”

* * *

The familiar guards outside Podrick’s chamber tells Jon that Sansa is within. His gut churns at the memory of her screams, her face, the way she _leapt_ over the table and saved Podrick’s life. He was going to check on Podrick before going to see her, but it seems they are both here. Jon swallows, nodding to the guards and opening the door.

The chamber is dark, the fire nothing more than a few glowing embers. Jon steps into the chamber and instantly shivers; he bites off a curse muttered beneath his breath and rushes to the hearth. Where are the servants? Surely they’re aware that the severe chill won’t help Podrick recover?

When the fire is roaring again, Jon stands and surveys the room. Sansa and Brienne are both asleep in their chairs, both shivering visibly even from a distance. Podrick, lying on the bed, is eerily still.

As quietly as he can, Jon searches the wardrobe for the thickest blankets within. He drapes one over Brienne and one over Podrick. Sansa sits sideways in her chair, her knees on the armrest and her legs draping over it. The chair is big but she is tall and she can’t be comfortable, bent like that. Jon’s jaw feels tight as he looks at her for a moment, considering if he should move her. But there is nowhere else for her to sleep any more comfortably in this room, and if he tries to carry her to her bedchamber he will surely wake her.

As much as he dislikes it, he decides to leave her the way she is. He bends and carefully covers her with the blanket, tucking the edges behind her shoulder and under her knee so it won’t slip. As he pulls it to her chin her eyes flutter open.

For a second there is naked fear in her eyes, darting around wildly. Jon drops to his knees and brings his face closer to hers, so she can see him in the weak light. He whispers, “It’s me. Jon. You’re alright.”

He can see the second she recognizes him. Her eyes fill with tears. “Jon…”

“I know.” His hand moves of its own accord to touch her face; then he thinks better of it. As his hand drops he accidentally grazes her back, the heat from her body shooting through him, and he moves on instinct, rubbing soothing circles there.

“He’ll be alright, Sansa.” Maester Wolkan told him as much, finding him in the great hall about an hour ago, where Jon was still cataloging the names of who was in the great hall and furiously trying to deduce what had happened.

Sansa whimpers and it pierces him.

“Sansa…You saved him.”

A sound between a snort and a snore startles them. Jon turns to find Brienne shifting in her chair, her eyes still closed.

“I don’t want to wake her,” Sansa whispers, and Jon mentally agrees. He doesn’t know Brienne and Podrick as well as Sansa does, but he knows their bond goes beyond that of knight and squire; reluctant as Brienne is to call herself a knight. Sleep might be elusive for Brienne in the coming days, and Jon wants her to take it while she can.

Quietly Jon stands and Sansa follows, folding the blanket over the chair behind her. She reaches for him and Jon is quick to pull her arm through his, holding her at his side as they leave the room.

Jon turns right, intending to lead Sansa to her bedchamber. She’s still half asleep, judging by the drag of her feet and how much of her weight he supports on his arm.

“Can we go to your chamber?”

Those words from her mouth make his throat dry. He swallows uselessly, then nods and changes direction. His chamber is closer than hers, and she is clearly exhausted—that’s all it is.

When the door to his chamber has closed behind him, Sansa tugs on his arm, leading him now. They take a few steps towards the hearth before Jon objects. “The bed, Sansa.”

She looks up at him with wide, startled eyes. “What?”

He curses his stupid mouth, neck suddenly flushed. “You should sleep in the bed.”

“I’m not going to sleep,” Sansa mutters, but even she doesn’t sound convinced, smiling a little when she meets his eyes.

“If you sit in that chair, you will sleep in it.”

“Fine,” she acquiesces. 

But she doesn’t pull herself away from him. She steers them both to the bed and clutches his arm so tightly he has no choice but to descend with her when she sits. _Enough,_ he berates himself, prying her fingers from his arm as gently as he can and pulling away.

“Please.”

She is so close, the line of her body so warm, pressed against his side. He wants to flee. But there is fear and pain in her eyes, and Jon hates that. He will support her. He will be a brother to her.

“I’m here, Sansa.” He aims for solidity and comfort but his hoarse voice betrays him.

Reassured, she releases him. She shuffles back on the bed and lays down on her side, drawing her knees up to her chin. A wave of tenderness overcomes him.

“Are you alright, Sansa?”

“Yes,” she says after a long moment. “I think it was Cersei. Brienne does too.”

He breathes in slowly. As if he doesn’t have enough reasons to hate the Lannisters. “Why?”

“It’s the same poison that killed Joffrey. That’s the kind of revenge she likes.”

Fear guts him. He struggles to keep his voice even. “You think it was meant for you?”

“Yes.”

Jon is suddenly grateful she cannot see his face in the darkness, lying on the bed. He fears every emotion thrumming through his body is plain on his face; dread, panic, and fear for her, fear so strong he is hollowed out by it.

“There’s something I want you to do,” he says gruffly.

“What is it?”

“You won’t like it.”

She pushes herself up on one elbow, the dim firelight touching half her face. “Tell me, Jon.”

“I want you to have a taster. Don’t eat or drink anything unless it’s safe.”

Sansa scoffs. “You want me to endanger someone else? Podrick was an _accident_ and I—I…”

“Then your taster will be a volunteer.” Half of Winterfell would gladly give their lives for their lady, Jon knew it. And if they don’t then it will be him who lays his life at her feet.

Sansa chews on her lip. “I can’t.”

 _“Sansa._ Hearing you scream like that…” His voice doesn’t want to cooperate but he pushes the words out. He needs to convince her. “It was something out of a nightmare. I fear for you.”

It would be so easy to get to her—a compromised meal, a laced drink. Jon is used to battles staying on the battlefield, but it seems King’s Landing has infiltrated Winterfell.

“I’ll consider it,” she says, and Jon can finally breathe. “If you take a taster as well.”

Despite himself, Jon winces, and he hopes she doesn’t see the reaction.

“Not easy, is it?” She sounds smug.

His mouth twists. “No.”

“You’re our king. Your life is more important than mine.”

“Don’t say that,” he says, more harshly than he intended.

The warmth in Sansa’s eyes strips him bare. The hand that isn’t holding her body up reaches for him. Jon catches it, pressing her palm to his lips before he can think.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, shocking him. It is the exact thought playing in his mind.

 _You won_ _’t._ He wants to speak those words to her, but he isn’t sure if that’s a promise he’ll be able to keep. And he won’t give her false promises.

“I will never leave you willingly.” The words are muffled against her hand, which curves to hold his cheek, then slides into his hair for a blessed moment before cupping his neck. She tugs slightly on his neck and he follows, clay in her hands.

Sansa shuffles to the side and he fills the narrow space she just vacated, suddenly steeped in the warmth her body left on the sheets. They have shared a bed before but Jon always slept like a rigid board, as far from her on the bed as he could manage without falling out of it. This is something else entirely.

Heart fluttering, every muscle in his body alert, Jon listens to her breathing even out with sleep.

 


	23. wherever I turn, she's what I find

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188666303281/wolf-circle-north-chapter-23-fic-summary-sansa) I want to acknowledge @Lindsayr28 who came up with "slow flicker" a couple months ago (in a comment on ch 13), which gave me a good laugh and I've it added to the tags!

 

Her head was pounding before she was even fully awake, a sensation far from new to her. Sansa has had many mornings like this, an ache in her head and swollen eyes the aftermath of tears. As she stirs awake the memories return; her first thought goes to Podrick and she can’t help a small sniffle.

Something tightens around her and Sansa forces her heavy eyes open.

Jon is everywhere, around her and behind her. One arm pillows her head and the other is curled around her waist, holding her to him. She is turned away from him but she can feel the hard line of his body pressed against her back. She is curved around him—or he is curved around her— all the way down to her feet that brush his shins. Something warm blooms in her chest, a surety of being so far from harm and so _loved_ that she hasn’t felt since she was a child. She isn’t even sure she would have recognized it then, but she does now, and she closes her eyes and basks in it. They aren’t covered in furs but Sansa, still in her heavy daywear and absorbing the heat from Jon’s body, is far from cold.

No, she is _warm_ , warm and aching. She shifts closer and something hard presses against her thigh.

Her cheeks flame and she instantly breaks the contact, jerking her leg away. But Jon’s arm tightens around her stomach, pulling her close. She bites her lip; her face feels like it’s on fire now. _He is a man and he is asleep and probably dreaming of another. You are awake and you have no excuses._

A knock falls on the door and Sansa carefully pries his arm from around her body. Jon stirs and the sound of another knock makes his eyelids flutter. When she sits up in bed, she instantly misses the warmth of his body. She starts to walk to the door to open it and stops in her tracks when she remembers that she is not in her chambers, but Jon’s.

As if sensing her thoughts, Jon rises from the bed with a groan. He wraps his cloak around himself before dragging his feet across the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He gives her a soft smile when he passes her but Sansa doesn’t return it, averting her eyes from her brother.

Jon opens the door just enough to speak to whoever stands beyond but shield her from view. They speak in low tones that deliver clipped fragments Sansa does not understand. “Four, yes, bring it here…”

Immediately after closing the door Jon moves to the fireplace and replenishes the wood, coaxing it to life. Kneeling at the hearth with his back to her, he asks, “Were you able to have any sleep?”

“Some,” Sansa answers, unable to speak the truth. It was the best rest she’s had in a while, without cruel visions of ghosts past visiting her in the night, even after the horrific event—and it was because she spent it in his arms. Her _brother_ _’s_ arms.

“Good. I have a busy morning, I won’t be able to see you until later, at the…” Jon sighs, and Sansa’s addled mind tries to predict the rest of the sentence.

 _“Gods._ Is that today?” With Podrick’s fall and Cersei’s raven she forgot about the meeting with the Umbers and the Karstarks. A flare of anger rises within her but quickly recedes at the mental image of Podrick’s purpling face, of how it felt to speak with Jon the night before. She is tired of being angry with him. She sighs. “When will they be arriving?”

Jon releases a breath he must have been holding as he awaited her reaction. “Around midday.”

“Am I expected to receive them?”

Jon quirks a brow, perhaps surprised at the question. “You are welcome, of course, but the King in the North is a respectable enough welcome.”

“They deserve no respect.” She can’t help the barb, but she dons the mask of the Lady of Winterfell at Jon’s stern look. “I have other matters to attend to. I’m visiting the free folk settlement today. But I will be at the meeting.”

“The settlement? But Brienne won’t be able to—”

A knock on the door interrupts Jon and he grunts as he moves to open it. Two maids walk in balancing a large tray between them. It is too much food for two and certainly too much for one. Sansa counts four cups of tea on the tray. They set it on a table and wait near the door after Jon’s command.

“Break your fast with me?”

“I can’t.” Sansa gives the maids a curious look and moves for the door. “I want to visit Brienne and Podrick before the day starts in earnest.”

“Aye, I knew you would.” A gentleness warms his words. “Wait a minute.”

Sansa watches him lift each of the four cups to his lips and take a small sip.

“Jon? Wait… _wait,_ what are you…”

He silences her with a stern look. He takes a small bite out of every roll of hard bread, the block of cheese, everything on the tray. Then he stands still for a moment, staring at the ground before him, and Sansa doesn’t breathe until he nods.

“Please take this tray to Podrick Payne’s chambers,” he tells the maids, then he looks at her— and Sansa sees the man who was lord commander, the man who is unyielding. “Until you get a taster.”

* * *

Jon hits the straw dummy again and again. It has been a long time since he trained with stuffed men on wooden spikes. It is a boy’s activity, not a man’s, certainly not an undead man’s, and the ease of it clears his mind and returns him to a simpler time.

His mind is full of Sansa. He should be thinking about dragonglass, about the young Karstark and the even younger Umber, about what their arrivals could mean, but those thoughts too lead to Sansa. Jon did not miss the little gasp that left Alys Karstark when she beheld Sansa, or the way she could not look away from her face from several long minutes. She was not alone—he believed little Ned Umber would be long besotted, if the way his mouth hung open as he beheld Sansa was any indicator.

“I have heard tales of your beauty, my lady,” was Alys’s stammering introduction, the high points of her cheeks crimson red, and Jon was struck by how very _young_ they all were, all of them playing at heads of houses.

“There’s more to be heralded about Lady Sansa besides her _beauty,_ _”_ Lyanna Mormont interjected, sneering at the newcomer. “Or were those not the tales they told on Ramsay Bolton’s side of the battlefield?”

Silence crushed the hall— not an uncommon reaction to Lady Lyanna’s words— until Alys Karstark spoke again.

“I wouldn’t know, my lady,” Alys retorted, face red still but voice strong as she glared at Lyanna Mormont in a way no one dared to. “Women aren’t allowed to choose sides on a battlefield, or see one. We follow our husbands and our fathers, until such a dark day that there’s none left, and I suppose that’s where our houses find ourselves, yours and mine.”

Though that marked the end of their exchange, it took a great deal of persuasion to keep Lady Lyanna from continuously attempting to revive it. But Lady Alys kept her head averted. Jon would not have noticed any of this were it not for Sansa’s gaze on the two, the only mark that she was present in the meeting at all.

For Sansa did not speak a word; not to greet the new lord and lady, not to agree or protest. Jon didn’t take this as a positive omen. She wore the icy mask of the Lady of Winterfell, proper but cold. He knows the importance Sansa places on presenting a united front when they’re with anyone but their trusted advisers, and he knows he will be hearing her thoughts when they have a moment alone.

Mostly, he thinks of what it felt like to wake with Sansa in his arms, and he hits the dummy harder and harder.

“I think he’s dead.”

Jon doesn’t turn; he knows the voice. “It’s good practice.”

“I’m sure.” Davos’s tone is a bit too high with amusement. “Will you be dining in the great hall, your grace? I think it would be wise, to join your new allies…”

“Aye.”

“That was a good thing you did.” Davos walks around so that he stands in Jon’s line of sight, behind the straw man. “Those children don’t deserve to be punished for their fathers’ crimes.”

“It has to end sometime.” 

Jon makes the decision sound simpler than it actually was. He holds no ill will towards Alys or Ned. They’re children, Ned a _boy,_ such a young boy, younger than even Rickon had been.

Yet Rickon had died on the fields outside Winterfell, partly because of Ned’s sires.

When he thinks about it that way, it is easy— _so_ easy— to understand Sansa’s refusal to forgive.

“How is Podrick?”

Jon sighs; he cannot bear to think of the squire, of the purple splotches on his face, of Brienne’s stricken face and lifeless form when he went to visit during the day.

“He hasn’t woken yet. The maester says it could be some time.”

“That poor boy…” Davos shakes his head. “Do you know who could have done it? Poison… it’s a woman’s weapon, mark my words.”

 _Cersei._ Jon’s shoulders tighten as he remembers what Sansa told him the night before. “We have our suspicions.”

 _“We?_ Ah… Lady Sansa.”

“Yes…” Jon hits the straw man, hard. He doesn’t look at Davos. “Lady Sansa. What of it?”

“Nothing.”

“Her bravery and resourcefulness saved Podrick.”

“Yes— thank the gods.” Davos holds up a hand when Jon opens his mouth with another retort. “You two work well together. You’ll find the culprit.”

Jon mutters a silent oath and uses the pent up force in his body to slam the dummy as hard as he can. What’s Davos thinking, using such language? Jon can’t think of he and Sansa _together,_ not in any sense of the word.

“Any word from Sam?” Thoughts of his dear friend, of the futile search and the imminent threat of the night king, are a powerful antidote.

“I believe Lady Sansa would know better than I…”

“Good gods, man. What use are you?”

The mirth doesn’t lessen in Davos’s eyes. “No word yet. But I do believe writing to him was an excellent idea. The citadel is the best resource we have.”

It was Sansa’s idea— and Davos knows it, too. She had instantly utilized Sam for her own purposes the moment Jon mentioned he had a friend at the citadel, and encouraged Jon to do the same.

“No dragonglass, not even a hint…” Jon groans. “We don’t stand a chance.”

“We need more allies,” Davos muses. “More armies.”

Jon sighs. “Aye, armies could help. But if we don’t have a way to kill wights then any man who fights for us will just be a man we’re giving to the army of the dead.”

Davos’s lined face is more grim than Jon has ever seen it. “Is that the fate you think waits for you?”

Jon doesn’t answer. He has no idea what fate awaits him. A cold certainty crawls down his back like a trickle of ice water— that he is living on borrowed time. That whatever erases the Night King from this world will swallow him, too.

“We should try to garner more powerful houses to our side,” Davos suggests. “Travel to their keeps, plead our cases.”

“As we did before we took back Winterfell?” Jon smiles. _“You_ might convince them. As you did then.”

Davos raises his brows and grins, accepting the compliment.

“But I have no wish of leaving the north.” Jon thinks of the promise he made Sansa the night before. “I _won_ _’t_ leave the north. Not when I know the night king is coming… no. I must stay here.”

Perhaps sensing no argument could change his mind, Davos shrugs. “We could write to them. It won’t be as effective, but we don’t have another option.”

Jon nods. “Lady Sansa will help me. She’s better with words.”

As if her name has summoned her, Sansa appears in his periphery. Her image wavers for a moment, a blur of copper and black, until he looks on her fully. Davos inclines his head as she approaches. “Good evening, my lady.”

“Ser Davos.”

Jon watches Sansa tuck her chin more securely into the furs at her collar. He sheaths Longclaw. “Let’s go inside.”

As they enter the keep Davos makes to leave them, to which Sansa protests, “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I only wanted to inquire as to the king’s evening plans.”

Jon stiffens at the term— _the king?_ She never referred to him as such. He is Jon, just Jon, to her. Not a king, not a lord, not a bastard… not a brother. In that instant, he is surprised to learn how much he likes being Jon to her. He wonders at the cause of this new stiff layer of formality; is she truly so angry over the presence of the Karstarks and the Umbers in Winterfell? Or is she placing distance between them for another reason?

He meets Davos’s questioning gaze, and the latter seems to understand. “Thank you, but I have my own matters to attend to…”

He doesn’t wait until Davos has left to needle her. _“The king_ is dining in the great hall tonight.”

Her eyes snap to his, like shards of ice. She understands his tone perfectly, then. “Good. I didn’t want to be there alone.”

“Oh. Lady Stark will be in attendance?”

She huffs. “You _are_ the king. Stop acting like a child.”

Chastised and more than a bit distressed, he stops walking. “Are you so disappointed in me?”

He registers the dejection in his tone; he feels how much he needs her approval. Sansa stops too, her eyes widening at his words. “No, I…”

“Do you wish it was you? Do you regret supporting my crowning— do you wish you’d taken your rightful place as queen? Do you want it now?”

He’s surprised by the rush of angry, pleading words that leave him, even more surprised than she, he’d wager. Sansa stands before him, stricken, and Jon instantly regrets his words, true as they were.

Jon heaves a breath. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He thinks he hears her say something, perhaps a call— _Jon,_ this time, and oh it guts him how he likes to hear his name from her lips— but he doesn’t stop. To stop would be to give into his baseborn nature, to the darkness that has been festering since he returned from the dead, since he first saw her again, to stop now when he is heated and ashamed and yearning to hear her say “Jon, Jon, Jon” to erase that one utterance of “the king” would be disastrous.

It would be the end.

(It would be the beginning.)

 


	24. thinking, this is what it could be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/188838576816/wolf-circle-north-chapter-24-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "Night" Adna. 
> 
> this is a bit of a shorter one but this was the best way for me to structure this block of chapters. the next few are longer and I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Jon bars the door to his chambers and stands behind it, unmoving, uncertain. There’s only one thing to do to dispel himself of the energy thrumming beneath his skin since that very morning, that beating a dummy raw with Longclaw did not solve. One thing to do so that he can be presentable and calm at dinner in the great hall instead of this needful, jittery version of himself. So that he can be their _king._

Is he what Lady Catelyn always feared he’d be— a usurper? Stealing her childrens’ birthright?

Though his blood is up, he is too confused and angry to do what he needs to do. So he unbars his door with a sigh and calls for a bath.

Before the servants have even finished filling it he is waving them away, eager to let the hot water dissolve some of the tension in his body. He is nearly undressed, in nothing but smallclothes, when a knock on the door disturbs him. He throws on a robe haphazardly as he marches to the door, intent on dismissing whoever it is so that he can enjoy his bath.

When he sees Sansa he instantly pulls the robe closed. Ghost is at her side and he barrels past Jon and into the room, announcing her intention.

“I don’t regret supporting your crowning. How dare you.” Though the words are angry her voice is hushed. Her eyes are on the ground and Jon realizes she’s looking at his bare feet. “It was me who first spoke to Lyanna Mormont of supporting you.”

The words are a punch. His mind scrambles to make sense of this new revelation, though it shouldn’t be one at all. After all, wasn’t it Sansa who sat at his feet before the very first meeting they had, the day he’d kissed her forehead on the high walls, and said, with all the ferocity of winter, _and if I_ _’m the one who wants you to be lord?_

They were talking only of lordship, though perhaps Sansa knew this was where it would lead. Perhaps she planned it. He thinks that’s what she’s telling him, now.

“Why?”

Sansa blinks. Jon realizes they’re still standing in the open doorway. As he steps aside to let her in, one hand securely holding his robe closed over his form, he hears her low answer, “I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”

“Has anything changed?”

“What?”

“You’re telling me you… orchestrated it…” She flinches so slightly Jon wonders if she’s aware of it, wants to examine it, but his mind is already losing track of the words. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t regret it. You criticize my decision to bring the Karstarks and the Umbers here—”

“I can criticize you. I can question your decisions. I thought you understood that. That’s the difference between you and all the southron kings.”

Yes, that is the difference. She stands in the middle of his chamber, by the tub and the wisps of steam still curling from its surface, and although she’s fully clothed complete with her furs it’s more intimacy than he can bear.

He clears his throat. “I would have your answer.”

“To what question?”

 _Do you want the crown?_ He doesn’t want to ask it again, not when it sounded so ugly the first time. Not when she’s already answered it by coming here. But he needs to hear the words, needs to hear something more concrete than the revelation of something she did many weeks ago.

“I don’t want to steal your birthright,” he finally says.

“You can’t steal what is freely given,” she replies, tone weary, and she can’t know, she _can_ _’t,_ how much she’s given him by that.

“If ever you want it—” She is always giving, always giving him, and he has to give her something back. “You can have it. I won’t fight you.”

She smiles slightly at that. “I know.”

“You would be good at it. You already are.”

Sansa turns her head away from him. “I don’t see that day coming soon.”

His words prick him in a way he won’t readily admit to, in a way that lives in the shameful darkness in his chest. “Why not?” He barely restrains himself from unfurling a banner of following questions— _Is there something else you want? Some other future you desire for yourself, when the end of war and duty has freed you from me? Where else would you go? Who else would you be? Whose would you be? Who would dare take you?_

“Did it ever occur to you that you’re not the only one who doesn’t want a crown? Who sees it as a burden?”

“You wanted to be queen, as a child.”

Sansa shakes her head, her mouth pinched as if tasting something bitter. “I grew up.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your girlhood dreams.” She’s moved to stand by the bed where Ghost lays. Jon watches her stroke the direwolf’s head lightly. She’s resolutely not looking at him. “Imagine Winterfell like it was when we were young. Imagine being queen in the north then. In spring… no threat of death. Children underfoot.”

Her head snaps to him so quickly Jon worries for the ache in her neck sure to come— then he worries for himself. Has he revealed too much? Sansa is looking at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, walking to him.

“I used to have such dreams.” She whispers it like a confession. “In King’s Landing and in the Eyrie… dreams of rebuilding Winterfell, of little children with auburn hair.”

When she looks at him her eyes are full of hope, the same hope that cracks through his chest. “Me too. A little boy named Robb.”

The smile that spreads across her face is a bright thing. But it dims when she breaks their gaze, when she looks downwards, when she inhales sharply, and Jon realizes with a jolt that he’s allowed his robe to fall open.

His hands are already fisted in the fabric to hide himself from her horrified gaze when she whispers, softly, “Don’t.”

Sansa closes the distance between them— half a step is all it takes. She looks and looks and _looks,_ her gaze so strong it’s almost a touch.

“I hate them,” she whispers venomously, the force behind her voice surprising him. Her eyes are round and focused entirely on the scars littering his chest. Though he shouldn’t have expected anything else, he did, and his heart breaks.

“I hate them just as I hate Ilyn Payne and Roose Bolton and all the rest.”

It takes Jon a moment to realize she’s talking about the men who stabbed him, not his scars, and suddenly he can breathe again.

“I know it haunts you… what you did to them.” Sansa’s lower lip gets sucked into her mouth, and her eyes, wide and apologetic, flit up to his face. He wonders what she sees there, what he looks like in that moment.

“It’s the boy,” he tells her, and it isn’t the first time. Sansa isn’t a stranger to the way Olly inhabits a guilt shaped space in his nightmares. He told her the very day they reunited, after all, somehow needing to confess in the heat of arguing over taking back Winterfell. _I killed a boy younger than Bran._ She didn’t forget.

“Every boy will remind you of Bran… and Rickon.” She says it as if she knows, with a slight quirk to her eyebrow. “I understand. Lyanna Mormont makes me think of Arya… and Alys Karstark reminded me of her today, too, though they look nothing alike. It was her spirit.”

Though she hasn’t said his name, Jon know she is talking about Ned Umber too. He knows she is telling him she understood his motivation when he thought of the young boy, thrust into being lord of Last Hearth, just as Bran was lord of Winterfell years ago, before the Ironborn came.

“Are you telling me you forgive me… for inviting them?”

She shakes her head slightly, though it isn’t a negative response. “We disagreed, that’s all… and… perhaps you were right. Podrick… he’s Ilyn Payne’s kinsman, you know… the man who took father’s head. Yet I could never hold it against him. I pray for him to wake.” She bites her trembling lip. Her gaze returns to his chest. “I just… I don’t…”

Her breath shudders. Sansa lifts her true blue gaze to him for a second, asking permission he silently grants, and his jaw is gritted tight when she traces a cool fingertip over the long black scar across his heart. 

 _“This…_ this is why I’m afraid,” she whispers.

“I didn’t know you were afraid.” It’s a whisper in kind, an apology. He should have known. He should have seen past her anger.

“I want you there, Jon. In Winterfell in spring…”

Heat suffuses his body at the images her words evoke. The dreams they both shared, actualized; auburn haired children, a soft-spoken boy and a couple willful girls, the glittering stream in the godswood.

“I want you here… with me.”

Somehow he didn’t realize his eyes were closed, but he does now as the visions morph and crystallize, strengthening as they show him the things he’s never allowed himself to think in Sansa’s presence.

“As we are now.”

The fantasy dies in his chest— there is only one way to interpret her words. _As we are now_ _…_

 _You fool, what else did you think you could be?_ He is truly bastard born, unworthy of standing in the same room as her. Unworthy of her trust.

But then he feels something soft at his temple; the slightest press of her lips. His eyes fly open at the shock, his body jolting forward as he’s overcome by her nearness, but she draws back as though burned, looking down— _down,_ at the bulge in his smallclothes.

Jon stands paralyzed by mortification, unable even to wrap his robe to cover himself.

“Excuse me… your… your bath will go cold… if it hasn’t already.” Just like that, she flees, shutting the door behind her with a resounding thud. Ghost whines at being left behind, and Jon moans out an echoing curse as he finally sloshes into the tepid water. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emotional intimacy can lead to semis 😔 this has been a PSA


	25. knowing, this is all it would be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (x) Chapter title from "Night" by Adna.
> 
> I want to quickly say thank you SO MUCH to everyone reading and giving me such kind, encouraging words in return. You guys have made this fic its own special place to me, a journey I'm enjoying far more than I thought I would.
> 
> Also I am going to start responding to comments relatively close to when I get them, instead of all at once when I update, (or at least I'll try), because it's taking me two hours or more to update at this point lol. Just letting you know because i know I created a pattern where you might be expecting an update immediately after getting a response to your comment, and I don't want to disappoint! (will delete later!)

In the great hall, Jon doesn’t expect Sansa to take her place at his side. He doesn’t expect her to ever look at him again. Yet when Sansa appears, she doesn’t shy from his gaze; she walks directly to him.

Her entrance casts silence over the assembly, who turn as one to watch their Lady of Winterfell make the short walk. Because of the recent arrivals there are more people assembled to dine in the great hall than there have been in some time, which Sansa seems to have considered— she is always both beautiful and reserved but tonight she is somehow more of both. She walks with her head held high, a manner befitting a queen, radiant in a gown caught between Stark grey and Tully blue, a pattern Jon cannot make out stitched across in an even paler shade. Her hair is the same copper crown it always is, arranged in the northern style she favors, and her bright eyes take in nothing in particular until she reaches the head table. Jon silently pulls out her chair, and he is astounded when she holds out her hand.

“My lady,” he mumbles, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth, quickly taking the offered hand until she has descended into her seat.

“Thank you,” she answers, voice high and clear, as if nothing transpired between them.

Ire flashes in her eyes when he reaches over to taste her water and her fish before she can. Just as quickly as it appeared, it melts, replaced by concern as Jon swallows.

“Please don’t keep doing that,” Sansa whispers once it’s clear he is out of danger, the food untainted. “My heart will stop.”

“That’s what I’m trying to avoid,” he quips, and Sansa’s brows rise. Jon can nearly hear her thoughts— _Jon Snow,_ _joking,_ today of all days.

The moment of ease evaporates, replaced by uneasy silence between them even if the rest of the hall is bustling. Jon tries to focus on his meal, a more colorful one than they’ve been able to enjoy yet, thanks to the fruit of the glass gardens. He nearly chokes on his ale when he glances at Sansa, as he’s been doing every few seconds without fail, and finds her staring back.

She quietly passes him a glass of water. “Jon, can I ask you something?”

In the following seconds his mind tortures him with the wild possibilities of what she could ask. “Aye… you can.”

“Does it offend you, if I use your title?”

Jon blinks. His mind stutters as he tries to catch up— he was sure, so sure, she was going to ask him, to confront him and shame him, about the _other_ thing.

“You call me ‘my lady,’” she explains, supposedly heedless. “But you got angry when I called you king before Ser Davos.” 

Her doe-eyed innocence feels false, and Jon isn’t sure he likes that. Is she doing this because of the other thing… to spare him? By pretending she didn’t notice, or she doesn’t _know?_ She fled the room— she must know. Jon shakes his head, suddenly uncomfortable. He prefers her sharp and willful, _herself._ He wants her to take her justice, to rail against him, to call him dishonorable.

“You did that with certain intention,” Jon responds when he realizes he’s said nothing.

Her brows rise. “Oh? And what was my _intention?_ _”_

“Never mind.”

She squints as if suspicious. Jon tries to ignore her, tearing into the fresh fish from White Harbor.

“If I was queen, and you addressed me by my title…” For some reason, her cheeks pink. “Well, I would not take offense.”

“I think you know why I took offense.” He doesn’t want to examine her words for hidden suggestions, doesn’t want to think about why she’s blushing.

“Actually, I don’t… not entirely.” She cocks her head to the side, a pure gesture, one of curiosity. “Do you?”

He sighs. She has proved once again that her sight is clearer than his. “No… I thought perhaps you were trying to place distance between us.” The words have new meaning, new shame, after what just occurred in his chamber.

Sansa opens her mouth to respond, then seems to think better of it and turns away from him. Jon blames himself, suspecting he’s created the distance he fears, until he realizes Littlefinger is approaching.

“Your grace… my lady Sansa.”  The last three words are practically a purr.

“Yes?” Jon snaps before she can respond. He will keep the lecher from speaking to her as much as he can. He will remind him of his threat, even if the ring of bruises Jon left on his face and neck have faded entirely.

“I heard about the squire,” Littlefinger says, only glancing briefly at Jon, speaking directly to Sansa. “I know he was important to you… I’m so sorry.”

“He’s still with us, Lord Baelish,” Sansa says a bit tightly. Jon takes too much pleasure in that. “No need to speak of him like he’s joined the dead.”

“Thank the gods.” Littlefinger seems undeterred, speaking softly and far too familiarly to her. “I can’t imagine what it was like—”

“No, you can’t,” Jon interjects, too loudly, a new thought occurring to him. “Where were you last night?”

His eyes seem to grow a shade darker; his tight smile is slime. “I was dining with Lord Cerwyn.”

“You never seem to miss an opportunity to dine here,” Jon muses. “But you were absent last night.”

“You’re mistaken.” Littlefinger’s features are waxy, frozen in that polite little smile he wears, and Jon can’t tell if he’s shaken him. “I have business that keeps me quite occupied.”

“Business I’m not aware of,” Jon replies. “I look forward to finding out what it is.”

Long after Littlefinger has floated away, fading into the shadows of one corner that seats some knights and some northerners, Sansa watches the man. Every time Jon looks at her, he sees her eyes on Littlefinger. She looks transfixed, unfocused, as if half in a trance, and Jon wonders if she even registers what her eyes are trained on. When he says her name she flushes to her neck, blinks very fast, and returns to her plate with exaggerated vigor. Yet Jon sees her eyes flickering to where Littlefinger sits. He doesn’t like that. Not at all.

* * *

“What a surprise, sweetling.”

Littlefinger sits at the modest desk in his chamber, looking out of place there. He turns at the waist to greet her. The surprise in his eyes doesn’t look feigned. He looks genuinely shocked to see her standing in his open doorway, even more so when Sansa nudges the door shut. So is she. She has never attempted such a thing.

“My guards are waiting in the hall.” There’s no graceful way to say it, and she _needs_ him to hear it before she can proceed, as she finds herself standing alone with him in a dimly lit bedchamber. “This will be a short conversation.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” he responds smoothly. “We can sit by the fire. I can send for wine… or those lemon cakes you like.”

For the first time in her life the thought of lemon cakes is repulsive. “No, thank you.”

Littlefinger rises from his desk but doesn’t approach her. He joins his hands in front of him and eyes her for a moment, his chin tilting up when he says, “It’s late.”

“It is. But I had to speak with you.” Sansa deliberated what to do throughout dinner, after she’d figured it out; after the horrible pieces fell into place in her mind, connected in a completely seamless and utterly repugnant way. For an hour she’d paced in her chamber, hands wrung, shaking from both fear and a burst of energy.

“I wonder what changed,” he says, cloying, pettiness and frustration threading through his voice. “You haven’t sought me out in weeks.”

“Neither have you, Lord Baelish,” she retorts, letting him misinterpret the frustration in her voice.

“That was not for lack of wanting, my sweet.”

Sansa hates to think of what machinations have kept him so busy, kept him from her. She regrets her earlier relief at his avoidance of her.

“And you?” His eyes are nakedly curious. “What kept you?”

“The same as you.” She pauses, letting him squirm for a moment, even if she can’t see it. “My obligations.”

“Ah.” He takes a step closer. “But something is different tonight?”

She nods, somehow not ready to say it yet. Despite her furious calculations, there’s a part of her that still isn’t sure this is the best path.

“I understand. It’s been a long day.”

It has; she can’t believe it was only the night prior that Podrick fell. Yet his implication makes Sansa want to laugh. The thought that _he_ is who she’d run to after a long day.

“Lord Baelish…” She takes a step towards him and doesn’t miss the way his eyes widen with surprise and interest. Sansa takes as deep a breath she can without doing so visibly and straightens her spine. _I am not a little bird anymore. I am a wolf._

“If you tried to kill Podrick Payne, please tell me now.”

Littlefinger’s features remain frozen in the state they were before she spoke the damning statement. Then he shakes his head. “How many times must I ask you to call me Petyr?”

“Did…” She is used to him playing games but he can’t think it’s possible to dismiss this. He can’t _possibly_ be so at ease, even if he did expect this from the moment she walked through the door, as she knows he did.  “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did.” He stares at the ground between them for a while and when he looks back at her,  there is a disappointed, ironic curl to his mouth. _After all I_ _’ve done for you,_ he says without speaking.

“You think I would poison your squire?”

“Brienne’s squire,” she corrects. It’s a difference that matters. “I know you’re not above using poison. You had a hand in Joffrey’s fall.”

“And you know why I did that,” he says quickly, his eyes flashing as if daring her to hold him accountable for it. “What reason do I have to harm this man?”

“You don’t have one. That doesn’t exonerate you. It was you who told me you keep your foes confused… _your_ lesson, to make moves that serve no purpose, except to create confusion.”

Littlefinger clicks his tongue, a ploy to earn an extra moment to think— or has she made a mistake by revealing how precisely she remembers his words?

“And are you my foe?” he responds quietly.

“I am not,” she answers, rage a thrumming band in her voice. Let him think it is because she’s insulted at her loyalty being questioned, and not because she is lying through her teeth. “Which is why I hope you’ll tell me the truth.”

“I did not poison the squire,” he enunciates.

“Perhaps it wasn’t meant for him.”

She didn’t think it would be easy to say it, but it’s harder than she imagined it would be, when she must contain her rage instead of shaking him apart like she wants to do.

“Then tell me… who was my target?”

Just like that, he’s backed her into a corner. She can’t say Jon’s name, because if she does she will be confessing how much Jon matters to her. She will be admitting that he can hurt Jon to hurt her… _although he knows already._ Of course he knows, he would be a fool not to know and Littlefinger is anything but a fool. But she can’t admit it, not aloud, not to him. These are words that must remain unspoken.

She watches, frozen with her heart beating fast, as he crosses the room to stand in front of her. Slowly he takes her hands between both of his. They are soft as if recently oiled, and cold.

“Do you think I’d ever hurt you, my love?” he murmurs.

Sansa shakes her head. She has become so good at lying.

“You’ll find the culprit,” he says in a low voice meant to soothe. “Whoever did this is my enemy too.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she replies slowly. “I hope… I want to rely on you.”

“You _can,_ _”_ he says, hope exploding his voice in the last word, his fingers releasing her hands to bracket her face.

“Lord Baelish.” She backs out of his grasp. “Please. We can’t.”

He lowers his hands, although Sansa doesn’t miss the way they curl into small fists at his sides. “You’re to be my queen. My _wife._ Unless… that’s not your intention at all?”

He is more honest here, in his bedchamber in the dead of night where inhibitions are already lowered— more courageous, giving frank words to things that have remained unspoken between them thus far.

“That’s a distant future,” she says.

“What’s changed? I ask only for a kiss.” His brow arches as if to say, _I_ _’ve taken them before._

“I’m no longer in hiding. No longer Alayne Stone or—” _Or the Key to the North you sold to Lord Bolton, waiting for another wedding day, ignorant of what was coming._ She could choke on the bile that rises in her throat. “I’m the Lady of Winterfell, and I must behave in a way befitting my role.”

“And a kiss would defile that?”

“Yes. A lady wouldn’t allow any man such liberties.”

“I hope that’s true,” he murmurs, slick and knowing, even if there’s nothing to know.

“You will take care not to insult me,” she says, hating the crawl of heat up her neck.

Littlefinger ignores her. “Is there a man who’s won your affections, my lady? Winterfell is teeming with eligible lords at present…”

Sansa is careful, _so_ careful, so perfectly guarded and convincing when she says, “No, my lord.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes like shards of flint watching her, his hands unclenching at his sides, and— she’s suddenly seized by the fear that he’ll try again. That he won’t respect her rejection. _My guards are outside,_ she reminds herself, taking comfort and strength in that.

“I’m sure you understand.” Senseless, she takes a step back to the door. “I can’t allow such contact with a man who isn’t my betrothed.”

“I see.”

Terrified that she has given him an idea, she scrambles to rectify her mistake. “And there’s no time for such a thing, now. In the midst of war.”

“There might always be war.” Challenge burns in his eyes, but softens a moment later. “I’m a patient man, my love. I waited _years_ for my first prize… to be lord of Harrenhaal, that charred ruin. I can wait for this. And it will be sweet, after so long a wait, and _better_ _…”_ He takes each of her hands in his once more, curving them like a bird’s talons so he can press repulsively moist kisses to her knuckles. “I will marry you in King’s Landing.  The Sept of Baelor has burned… but that makes it even better. I will marry you when I’m king. I will marry you before the Iron Throne.”


	26. here in my arms as I shake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [(x)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/189252208176/wolf-circle-north-chapter-26-fic-summary-sansa) Chapter title from "You" Keaton Henson. 
> 
> This chapter is another favorite of mine! I'm excited!

 

Sansa’s hands shake until the servant places a goblet of wine between them. She has never sought comfort in drink before, but she will allow herself one cup just this once.

_I ask only for a kiss._

The wine melts a path down her parched throat. Sansa looks forward to the numbness, the pleasant haze. The hunger in Littlefinger’s eyes burns in the back of her mind, two embers that won’t allow her peace. She doesn’t think she will be capable of being alone in her chambers tonight. She opens her door and finds Alora standing watch, the only woman in her retinue of Mormont guards.

“Please bring King Jon to my chambers,” Sansa tells her. “Be discreet.”

She drains the wine as she waits, shivering in her thin sleeping robe. The half empty decanter sits in her periphery, the liquid within near black in the darkness.

_I will marry you before the Iron Throne._

He sounded so confident, so _sure._ Sansa feels the ground shift beneath her as the reality of who she’s contending with crashes over her. His words turn the preposterous image, his pretty picture, into a disturbingly real path she can see in her mind’s eye.

She blinks against it, and hot tears warm her cheeks. For even the best endings will result in her marriage; she realizes it now, the thought she’s been avoiding since she returned to Winterfell as a Stark, victorious. A faceless lord who will marry her _because_ she is a Stark, and she will marry him for the same reason. _I have always done my duty._ Thinking of her mother is sharp lance of pain through her breast, and Sansa brushes away her tears.

As she swipes a hand across her face she feels a tightness across her knuckles, moisture that’s dried. Her stomach roils, thinking of Littlefinger’s lips and Littlefinger’s spit on her skin, and she lurches for the water basin by the dressing screen and the sliver of soap beside it. She scrubs her hands raw, her breath hitching with her furious motions, and she doesn’t register the sounds she’s making, how very close they are to sobs, until she hears an intake of breath behind her; the scuffle of feet.

She spins in place. Jon is there, the chamber door closed behind him, and how could she not have heard him enter— not heard him knock, as he unfailingly does?

 _“Sansa.”_ He sways towards her, then catches himself, swallowing visibly as he roots himself in place. His eyes are twin coals of concern. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” She dries her hands slowly on her dress. She’s aware of Jon’s eyes following the movements, aware of his attention flickering to the wine decanter and the empty cup. Unladylike. Unlike her.

“You will tell me.” It is a command. A growl. His hands clench and she notices Longclaw on his hip. _Oh Jon._

“I don’t take orders from you, Jon,” she retorts, but there’s no bite in it. She sounds painfully weary. She sinks back into her chair and gestures for him to take the seat opposite. He stares at it as if he doesn’t understand.

“Why did you summon me, Sansa?”

“I need—” She bites her tongue. “There’s something I must tell you. It can’t wait til morning.”

If he’s surprised, and he must be, it doesn’t show. His face is a mask of tension as he waits for her to explain. Sansa knows that when she does it won’t ease his tension, not at all.

She takes a fortifying breath. “I’ve just come from Littlefinger’s bedchamber—”

He’s across the room before the last word is out of her mouth, the glint of Longclaw half unsheathed catching the weak candlelight. She leaps out of her chair and steps into his path, halting his steps.

“He touched you,” Jon growls, eyes flicking to her still-damp hands in accusation.

“No, no, he—” _He tried to,_ she almost says, but it won’t be reassuring for Jon, no, she knows that if she says that much she won’t be able to stop him from taking his head.

“We only talked,” she says, but the grimace doesn’t ease.

“You were crying,” he argues, voice breaking on the last word. “He did _something—_ I warned him—let go of me, Sansa.”

He could throw her off with utter ease even with her hands sunk into him like claws, but he doesn’t. That’s Jon. Needing her permission, even now.

“Please. Listen to me. Please, show faith in me, and sit and _listen._ _”_

He’s trembling— she can feel it beneath her palms. His eyes are skittering everywhere, trying to hold onto his anger. Or trying to contain it.

“Please,” she whispers, and he looks at her quickly, his breath shuddering out in a little cloud. She suddenly realizes how cold it is. She hasn’t lit the fire.

Sansa pushes gently and he allows her to lead him, until his knees bend and he’s seated.

“You have to take care with Littlefinger. You can’t… swing a sword or a fist every time he irks you.”

He ignores her, asking in an even voice that is so clearly forced, “Why were you in his chamber, Sansa?”

“I confronted him,” she answers quickly, then realizes how— out of context— it sounds like she’s done the very thing she’s discouraging him from doing. “I had my guards,” she adds, a failed attempt to ease the fury in his eyes.

“What.. did you… confront him about?”

“It was him, not Cersei,” she blurts out. Inelegant, but she can’t dance around words anymore. She watches his eyes widen. “The poison wasn’t meant for me... or for Podrick. It was for _you._ _”_

Her voice breaks; hurriedly, embarrassed for some reason, she swipes at her eyes that have begun to leak again. “He tried to… to kill you, because you were named king, because you threatened him, because…”

She hasn’t allowed herself to think of it yet, to fully process Littlefinger’s intentions, the unimaginable cost. Only hours prior she told Jon how she feared the new arrivals because of the danger they could pose to him; because she doesn’t want to lose him. Yet the person who would take Jon from her was already in Winterfell, on _her_ invitation.

Guilt grips her. All the composure she wore like armor in Littlefinger’s chambers doesn’t exist here. Her shoulder shake. The tears won’t stop.

“He failed,” Jon says quietly, a balm. “I’m here.”

She nods slowly, trying to absorb the comfort he’s giving her. “You believe me?”

“Aye. And... I can’t express how grateful I am that you were not the target." He pauses, clears his throat. "But if you’re trying to keep me from harming him, Sansa, I don’t see how this does that.”

“I’m trying to tell you how dangerous it is to threaten him. How— how _clever,_ how insidious he is. He used that poison because he knew I’d suspect Cersei first. He…” Sansa gasps as a new layer becomes unveiled. “He put Cersei in my mind,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“Cersei’s raven… it may have arrived ages ago. _Days_ after the sept burned. I think… I think he withheld it until last night. Until _minutes_ before, so that I’d be thinking of her as I watched…” She swallows. “As I watched you fall.”

Jon sighs, not a breath of relief but an angry thing, his arms crossing over his chest and his furrowed brow belying fast thoughts. “His… plan… was flawed, don’t you think? Why would Cersei assassinate me? You said she wants you dead because she thinks you killed Joffrey. She doesn’t suspect me of such a thing.”

There is wisdom to his words— a terrible sunlit memory crashes through her mind, Cersei pleading with Joffrey not to take her father’s head after he’d issued the order. Somehow Sansa’s mind stored Cersei’s words, even if she couldn’t hear them then. _This is madness, my son,_ she said. She understood the disastrous political implications, saw the war coming. But that was a Cersei of years past. Not the one who burned the Sept of Baelor.

“You’re still her enemy. You’re a king of one of her kingdoms. And… it would hurt me to hurt you.”

Surely, the wine has loosened her tongue. Jon’s eyes are soft but he holds himself rigidly still, his features masked. “I…” His hand rakes over his beard. Sansa watches the motion too closely.

“I don’t want to betray your trust in me, Sansa.” Her keen eyes on his face, eyes that have disregarded everything else into a blur, see the blush that rises in the space above his beard. And she knows what he’s thinking of, the leap his mind took. The moment in his bedchamber… her cheeks heat, unwilling to entertain a number of lewd words that cross her mind. That moment when was a man, not her brother.

She doesn’t know how she feels about it, if she will ever allow herself to think of it again, but she knows she won’t hold it against him.

“You _haven_ _’t,”_ she says, a pleading note in her voice for a reason she can’t place. “You haven’t… intentionally… done anything.”

It’s an important distinction to make.

“I wronged you, even if you’re too generous to admit it.” He’s curling his hands over the armrests tight, his knuckles white. “I’m dishonorable. Please, say it.”

“I won’t. It would be a lie.” A ferocity for him powers her voice. “You’re not a dishonorable man. I’m quite good at recognizing them. I’ve met many.”

“Jaime Lannister,” he says, quick, _so_ quick, and Sansa’s reeling.

 _Yes._ She should say that— _yes._ It would restore order. It would redraw a line in the snow, placing each of them on either side of it. As it should be.

“Littlefinger, Joffrey, all the men of the kingsguard,” she responds, not looking at him.

And because she’s not looking at him, she doesn’t know how he reacts. Do his full lips part, exposing the dark cavity beyond? Do his eyes widen, darken— does the line between black and darkest brown disappear? Does his throat move as he swallows?

Because she’s not looking, she doesn’t know what he thinks, and his next words are quiet and about something else.

“Why would you tell Littlefinger you know what he did? Sansa, that’s reckless.”

“It would have been reckless _not_ to tell him.” It’s safe to look at him now. The mention of Littlefinger is a gust of cool air. “After what you said at dinner, he would have known I suspected him. If I didn’t approach him about it and give him a chance to dissuade me, he would have suspected me of moving behind his back.”

_Cersei Littlefinger Margaery Tyrion Olenna._

But there’s undeniable admiration in the way Jon tilts his head back to look at her. It’s not unlike the first time he beheld her in this new life, after she challenged him to fight for Winterfell. _We_ _’ll take it back from them._ She knew she could still surprise him. It seems she can still impress him.

Then he sighs. “What if he’d confessed? What if you’d been forced to move against him?”

“He never would have. Because he wasn’t successful.” Sansa was sure of this when she considered it beforehand. “He wouldn’t risk being brought to justice, even if there isn’t any evidence. There’s too many moving pieces, Lord Royce is not his friend…”

“I see,” he concedes. He doesn’t push to bring Littlefinger to justice anyway, and for that Sansa is grateful. She is tired of fighting.

They share the silence. The distance between them, in the chairs that face each other in front of the dark hearth, feels too large to cross. Sansa hates it. She wants to walk to him and shake him. Was he ever so still?

He speaks in a tone too soft to fully disrupt the quiet. “I don’t like this.”

She almost laughs. “No.”

He could be speaking of Littlefinger. He could be speaking of the chasm between them. It could be something else entirely. But it applies to everything, Sansa thinks wearily.

Then he asks the silliest question, the most unnecessary question. “Why were you crying?”

The reminder returns burning tears to her eyes. She can’t tell him Littlefinger’s plans for her— she can’t tell him how she didn’t contradict them. Jon would run Littlefinger through no matter the consequences. And he might hate her, too.

But the possibility of unburdening herself is so very tempting. And Jon is looking at her with those wide, concerned eyes, waiting for an answer.

“I…” She searches for words that would strike the proper balance. “I thought I was in control.”

Sansa presses her palms to her eyes. Throughout everything she has been confident that placating Littlefinger was the wisest path, safe in her surety that it will never come to that— it _can_ _’t._ A surety she sees now is entirely hollow. She wonders how sure of their actions, how secure in their safety, Robb and Mother and Father felt… before the blades came anyway. She recalls with a painful throb her predictions as she walked down the path to the weirwood tree on Theon’s arm. She anticipated a painful wedding night, a loveless but short marriage, and commended herself on her maturity and realism in regarding the situation.

She was wrong. They were all wrong.

“What if— we lose. What if everyone loses, and it’s just me and him.” Sansa knows what she’ll do then. She’ll never allow Littlefinger to have his pretty picture. She will take her life just as she promised Jon she would on the eve of battle. She would not be Ramsay’s wife. She could not be Littlefinger’s. Her breath comes quick with panic. “I don’t want to die, Jon. Despite everything, I always wanted to _live._ And that’s what I’ll have to do to myself— if—”

  _“Never.”_ His voice is a tremor, too close. She hasn’t heard him leave his chair, but when she moves her hands from her face she’s astonished to find him on his knees before her.

Silently, Jon holds his arms open— and Sansa collapses into his embrace. He holds her tight to his chest, cradling her so that no part of her touches the cold floor. She trembles in his arms, he shakes around her, and Sansa can’t tell where she ends and he begins.

“Sansa, it won’t come to that.” It’s a murmur muffled in her hair. “I won’t let it.”

“Jon,” she says, her voice cracking with pain. “When will you stop making me promises you can’t keep?”

“Keeping my promises to you is the only reason I live.”

Sansa’s breath hitches. He’s pulled back just enough so she can see his face, the fierceness in his eyes.

“Then stay away from him. Don’t provoke him. And I’ll do the rest,” she swears. “Let _me_ protect _you._ _”_

 Sansa swallows at the pain in Jon’s eyes, at the objections she knows are forming in his mouth. She touches a hand to his cheek before he can speak.“If I lose you, I’ve lost.”

He nods, slowly. His beard scratches her palm in a decidedly pleasant way. 

Her arms move of their own accord, wrapping around his neck. She rests her chin on his shoulder. She turns her head so that his hair, pulled back tight at his nape, tickles her nose. _Wrong._

“Please, stay with me tonight.” Her lips move on the skin by his ear, where his beard starts, so that it feels both coarse and smooth. _Wrong wrong wrong._

Jon responds by clutching her tighter and rising, lifting them both. Sansa’s arms tighten around his neck, even though she knows she’s in no danger, her nose burrowing into his hair— it smells like the soap she used on her hands, and she thinks of him washing it in the bath.

He walks them both to the bed, lowering her gently, barely lifting off of her, his body curved over her prone one. Sansa doesn’t give him the chance to leave. Her hands stumble over the laces of his jerkin; despite the countless garments she’s made and mended, her hands are unpracticed in this motion— removing a man’s clothing in the dark. Jon’s hands collide with hers, rough and hard, as they both make quick work of shedding his outer layer until he’s in his open-necked tunic. Her hand drags over a solid plane of skin, and she snatches it back, then lowers it as she feels Longclaw’s hilt prodding her hip.

His inhale is too loud in the space between them as her hands start scrabbling at his sword belt. He makes quick work of that, too, and then he slides against her, and for one delicious moment his weight is covering her entirely. Then he slips off to the side, and Sansa turns too, hiding her face in his chest, her arm curling over his back.

“I’ll start the fire,” he protests weakly, but Sansa doesn’t relinquish her hold.

“I’m very warm,” she says, and it seems that’s all the dissuasion he needs.

 


	27. here in my bed as I sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "You" Keaton Henson.

To Jon, Winterfell is different. Nothing has changed but he has, the slightest shift in his making that he feels every moment— like the time his hair was at an uncomfortable length where he couldn’t place it behind his ears or tie it up and it was always falling in his eyes. Sansa fixed that, too.

He tries to focus on that, on her hands that mend, on her hands splayed on his back in sleep, as he listens to the second hour of complaints and fears about the assassin in Winterfell.

Accusations ring through the great hall. Cersei Lannister. Bolton sympathizers. The Free Folk. Southerners. It feels strange, to sit still and feign ignorance when he already knows the answer; when he sees the culprit’s eyes slithering over the audience, no doubt storing information. _Scheming._

Anger is an itch crawling up his neck. Knowing he needs to maintain control, Jon looks at Sansa; an instant balm. But Sansa needs no such help; she is clear-eyed, attentive, perfectly composed. She does not glare at Littlefinger like he suspects he’s done, despite his painstaking efforts. Jon sees her, her strength, in a new light; he cannot begin to fathom the number of times she’s had to do this, suppress her rage instead of taking her justice. There is an unbearable cracking in his chest for her, that this has been her life. _I want to spare her this._ Of all the powers and titles he has been given, that is the only one he wants;  the ability to give her a life of peace.

But she is a Stark in winter. And Jon he can’t deny how well she wears her name, her position and her burden. She is quick-tongued yet patient. Some of the lords say they want to leave Winterfell, that the keep is no longer safe.

“It _isn_ _’t_ safe here,” Sansa responds, face a mask of ice. “I hold you under no such illusion, Lord Glover. But it’s no more dangerous than anywhere else. Here, at least we are united.”

It was her idea to hold this meeting. “I’m sure people are frightened,” she said to him two days prior as she clothed herself for the day behind her dressing screen, and Jon tried not to follow the shape of her, dress rucked up at her hips, rolling the wool stocking up her leg. “There’s already so much friction… we need to take control of the situation.”

He agreed readily, though he was unable to suggest alternatives to telling the truth. Sansa seemed equally ill-equipped. “We’ll just have to listen to them. Remind them to focus on other things.”

Jon could do that, and he does so now. “I understand you’re all frightened. But we can’t allow this incident to turn us against each other. To distract our focus from preparing for the great war.”

“I understand, your grace,” Lord Royce responds with an indulgent, tight smile. “But this is a threat we can’t overlook.”

“This is _your_ castle, your grace…” Lord Cerwyn adds. _“Your_ responsibility to make sure your guests are safe.”

He can’t mean what Jon thinks he does. Indignation flares up his chest at the insinuation. His fist closes around Longclaw before his words form. But Sansa is quicker. “I know you are not accusing Robb Stark’s brother of violating guest right,” she seethes.

She lets the sentence sit in the still hall, eyes lit with challenge, until Cerwyn bows his head. “No, my lady. I apologize, your grace.” 

“Such an accusation against your king is no small matter,” Jon replies with barely held composure. “Let this be a warning, my lord.”

Cerwyn nods several times and disappears into the back ranks, quiet for the remainder of the meeting.

“With all due respect, your grace.” Lord Royce sounds truly impatient now. “This is a grave matter, despite the other threats facing us at present. It must be treated seriously.”

“It is… hence this meeting.”

Sansa reprimands him for the retort with a glance so whip-quick it can’t be considered a glare, and if Jon wasn’t so attuned to her he would not have caught it.

“There are ways to find the culprit,” Lord Royce continues. “We can catalog the names of the people in the room—”

“It’s been done,” Jon answers, hoping he doesn’t sound as weary as he feels.

Lord Royce huffs through his nose. “I know for a fact Lord Baelish wasn’t present that night.”

The statement shocks the room into silence. No one has dared to make a direct accusation against anyone in attendance thus far. Eyes swing to Littlefinger, including Jon’s, but the man doesn’t seem affected. He merely crooks a brow and asks, “By your logic, doesn’t that exonerate me?”

“Lord Baelish is an ally,” Sansa replies before Lord Royce, who looks as if he’s coming apart at the seams, can turn this into something irreversible. “He has our trust. Just as you do.”

Jon nods, seeking strength from his promise to Sansa— _I said I would let her handle this, I said I would follow her lead_ — before speaking. “We are searching for the culprit at present. Once he is found and tried, he will be punished.”

Though he looks far from pleased, Lord Royce settles back into his seat. A part of Jon wishes he could speak just as frankly— wishes he could announce the truth to the assembly and cross the room and rip Littlefinger’s throat out.

But he promised Sansa, and he finds his resolve in that promise, in the color of her bright eyes and the planes and curves of her ice-carved features, in the memory of her hands curled into delicate little fists on his chest.

“We must remain focused on the real threat,” Jon says to the assembly, diverting their attention as Sansa wanted him to. “Lady Sansa and I have sent ravens to nearly every house asking for men. We’ve asked the Iron Bank for aid. We have a friend in the Citadel searching for dragonglass. Our priority remains the same— that search and weapons training…”

The meeting lasts an hour more, and Jon is forced to part from Sansa without more than a few hushed words exchanged at the door. They are both riding out of Winterfell today, on separate tasks; Jon to the bleak forests with Davos and Tormund to investigate a tide of new rumors of direwolves, Sansa to Wintertown and the free folk settlement to distribute rations of fresh food from the glass gardens. Their days have not become more generous, but they find each other in the night.

Six nights, five mornings— it’s foolish to count, but Jon does it unconsciously, is incapable of letting them pass by without recognition. Six nights with Sansa sleeping in his arms.

On the first morning, the shock came slow. For a moment, caught between sleep and waking, he only felt contentment, warmth and want. He tightened his hold on her, canted his hips forward— until consciousness struck him, and his breath came so fast for a moment he was shocked he didn’t wake her. _Sansa,_ in his arms—soft breaths on his neck, one leg curled around him, red strands of her loose hair in his face, turning his vision rose. Jon gritted his teeth to hold in a groan, used every ounce of his strength as a warrior, wildling, crow, king and bastard to keep his hips from moving, from seeking her. _Bastard._ He was acutely aware of his bastard-born body’s reaction to her— no, to the morning, to  a woman’s softness draped across him— and thought again, _dishonorable. Unworthy._ He stayed statue-still until she blinked awake, and then instantly reached for the furs to cover himself.

“I slept well,” she said once she had separated herself from him, perched on the edge of the bed like a bird about to take flight. Jon stayed as he was, lying on his back under the furs, afraid to move and frighten her.

He cleared his throat before speaking and yet his voice was hoarse— he saw her start, glance at him, saw her hands bunching in her sleeping robe. “I did too.”

“Good.” It was a whisper too low to shatter the morning. Gratitude shone in her eyes, and Jon wanted to shake her by the shoulders, to beg her— _call me dishonorable—_ to beg her for a great many things. 

They dressed quietly, Sansa behind her screen and Jon with his back turned to that corner of the room, quickly returning his outer layers and his sword to his body. He murmured a goodbye he couldn’t be sure she heard and slipped from the room— registering the Mormont guard’s eyes on him, the same woman who fetched him the night before, the woman who knew he entered in the night and left in the morning. Eyes burning with judgment before sliding away.

That’s when he told himself it would be the last time. For Sansa’s sake. _Enough._ It didn’t matter that they both slept better in the last two nights than they had in months. He couldn’t insult her honor this way, couldn’t stand to hurt her even if she asked for it.

And yet, that night, after training and meetings and an argument with Lord Manderly and a visit to Podrick’s chambers that left him with a heavy heart, after racing around the keep to taste Sansa’s food and drink before she could— he had allotted a young Hornwood boy to the task of fetching him, and Sansa’s guards were eager to comply with their king, not allowing Sansa to eat until Jon had tested her food for safety, despite the fury in her eyes— he found himself knocking on her door.

She opened it without greeting, without surprise. It seemed clever Sansa knew he would come. Jon smiled when he saw Ghost within. “I’m happy you’re here,” she said, later, when her head was resting on his chest and his fingers played with the ends of her hair.

Six nights in her chambers, never his— not because they’re the lord’s chambers but because he won’t subject her to the indignity of creeping through the keep in the hour before dawn. Six nights, all the same in essence but gloriously different in detail, each like a flake of snow— the shape of her hair each morning, the pale shades of Sansa’s sleeping robes. The places her hands touch. The ways her body molds to his. Jon prays that if he ever grows to be old, he will remember every detail. He prays that the memory of her eyes in the dark will warm him in his grave.

On the seventh night, the fire is stoked and strong. They have briefly reviewed their day and examined the meeting; Sansa commending him for his control, he commending her for her quick words, always the right ones. They are preparing for bed— she behind her dressing screen and he with his back turned, their ritual now— when he hears a cry, so soft he nearly doubts it. Still, he jumps and steps towards the dressing screen, his eyes on the ground so as not to see anything he was never meant to see.

“Sansa? Are you alright?”

“Yes.” But the quiver in her voice is not reassuring. Still, he forces himself to be patient, to wait for her to emerge.

Then he asks, softly: “What is it, Sansa?”

She heaves a sigh, and the swell of her chest has Jon averting his gaze. He notes the color of her nightgown and robe, the palest shell green. “I… the maester wants me to apply these balms… Brienne does it, but she hasn’t left Podrick’s side, of course, and…”

“Are you in pain?”

She bites her lip. “No.”

There must be something in his face, because she steps forward and claims, “I promise, Jon, it’s just a bit irritating.”

He takes a steadying breath. “Are you _sure_ _…_ we can go to the maester.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I’m not in any dire need.”

She looks at him from beneath her lashes and Jon thinks she might ask— and although it makes part of him want to flee, he already knows he’s not strong enough to deny her anything.

But she doesn’t ask, sliding past him and underneath the furs.

Jon puts out the candles before he joins her. He sleeps in his daywear, a tunic and breeches, a fresh set he changes into before he knocks on her door so as not to offend her by the grime and sweat of  the day. He won’t bring his own sleeping robe, refuses to bring any part of him into this room that would remain after he leaves it. This way, they can pretend this is transient— a choice they are making every day, a choice they can _not_ make, instead of the way things have become.

Her head, the glorious crown of her hair tucked underneath his chin. Her fingers clenched in his tunic. Her legs tangled with his.

He tries not to notice anything else, impossible as she slides and curls against him through the night. He wonders if his restraint matters to the gods watching him, or if he is doomed regardless.

His existence is already an affront to the gods, the old and the new, all but the Lord of Light, with his unnatural heart and his unnatural cravings. But Sansa… she doesn’t deserve their wrath, or their judgment. Yet, how can he deny her? Her words from the first night rush back to him, a pardon he clings to: _you haven_ _’t intentionally done anything._

But is that still the truth, when he crawls every night into their lord father’s bed?

Later, when her breath has evened out and he thinks she may have fallen asleep, she whispers so low he catches the edges of the words, “I’m selfish.”

Jon tightens his hold on her. “Then so am I.”

“I can’t find peace otherwise.” Her cold fingers scrape his neck, twist into his curls. “Is that so terrible?”

She will take it as an insult, his stubborn, clever Sansa— but he says it anyway. “You are innocent, Sansa. Innocent in this.”

A deep breath— Jon feels every stage of her lungs expanding. “We _need_ rest… why should we deny ourselves, if we can only find it like this?”

He has no answer for her, none but the press of his lips to her temple. He falls asleep only when she has, with her hand on his tunic, covering the scar over his heart. He wonders if she knows.

* * *

In Wintertown, Sansa doesn’t go to the orphanage for what she needs. At the orphanage, she does her duty. She stands by as servants deliver baskets of food and crates of mended clothes from the castle, listens to the complaints from the matrons and the stories from the children. They’re scrawny and sad but their lives are better than what she can offer them.

Tears prick her eyes as she moves on to the inn; doubt nearly turns her feet. Her hood covers her distinguishing hair, her cloak pulled up past her chin to obscure her face. It’s too cold for activity in the streets, and she and Alora make their way undisturbed.

When Sansa enters the inn, she’s relieved to find the tables and chairs unoccupied. Jurnor was tasked with distracting the innkeeper while Sansa slid by. She couldn’t trust that paying him for his silence would be effective; Littlefinger would always pay more.

In the chilly cellar stands Rolan, the last of her Mormont guards involved in this plan. Before him stand the children. The hardiest, scrappiest children in Wintertown, the ones who run from the orphanage and create trouble. The ones who starve. Alora, Rolan, and Jurnor have been gathering them for three days, leaving Winterfell in short shifts so as not to draw Littlefinger’s attention.  

Their eyes widen when Sansa pulls back her hood and undoes her cloak.

“Red wolf,” one of them says, pointing with a grubby finger.

A smile tugs on Sansa’s mouth. “Is that what they call me?”

The boy nods. Sansa descends to his level, watching his eyes widen further. “My real name is Sansa. What’s yours?”

“Crybb.”

“How would you like to have your meals in the castle, Crybb? And a bath and a place to sleep, if you want it. You could come and go as you please, so long as you stay out of sight.”

He nods. “I’m good at that.” Several of the children behind him are nodding along, some managing to do so with their thumbs in their mouths.

“Good. It’ll be our little secret.”

“We can’t pay,” one of the taller girls in the back protests. “What’d you want from us?”

Sansa tries to keep her heartbreak from showing on her face. “Nothing. Nothing, if you don’t want to give me anything in return.”

The girl snorts, crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell—”

“I don’t _know_ you,” the girl repeats. “I want to pay my way.”

Sansa returns to her feet, looking down at the children from her full height as she speaks. “You have my word, on my honor as a Stark, that if you don’t want to pay, no one will make you. You’ll be under my protection, and you’ll have your meals. But for those of you who do—”

“We don’t have coin,” a boy interrupts. “So what can we give ya?”

Sansa meets his eyes when she says, “Whispers.”

* * *

Before she leaves the inn, Sansa puts ink to parchment. She feels marginally safer composing and sending her message here, outside the keep where the chances of it being intercepted are slimmer.

Jon is trusting her, and she will do everything she can to reward that trust. To evict Littlefinger from their home and from their lives.

 _Tyrion Lannister,_ she writes, hoping she hasn’t made a mistake.


	28. don't lose sight of what I want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "I Found" by Amber Run.
> 
> As this story gets longer and more convoluted, I had the idea of listing some suggested chapter(s) to reread before getting into the new one to refresh your memory— when needed. For example, if it's been a while since we visited a POV, plotline, or place. And it's only a suggestion, of course, do what you wish! (Let me know what you think of this.)
> 
> Suggested Skimming:  
> for the first scene: Chapter 18, Chapter 20 (last few dragonstone scenes)  
> for the second scene: Chapter 19, Chapter 9 (Tormund)

 

The skies and the waters surrounding Dragonstone darken every day, from smoke to slate to iron. Today the sun struggles to penetrate the clouds. It makes Tyrion think of winter, of the time he spent in Winterfell and Castle Black. _Winter has come,_ she said, a fact Tyrion knows from the white raven of the Citadel. But it’s entirely different— jarring, almost humbling— to hear those words from a Stark.

“One can hardly tell it’s morning.”

Tyrion turns, although Varys’s voice is unmistakable. His eyes immediately go to the unfurled scroll on the stone map. For an instant, he regrets leaving it there; a childish reaction. Varys would have learned its contents eventually, as he learns most things.

“I’ve come to say goodbye,” Varys says as he approaches. Tyrion nods. Varys should have left to Highgarden a week prior, but the incident with Jorah and Euron delayed him. Until now, Tyrion isn’t sure what happened between the two men; all he saw was bloodied faces, bloodied swords. Neither man sustained a serious injury, and both were tight-lipped. Even Queen Daenerys in all her fury couldn’t draw the tale from them. _Well, as far as I know._ It isn’t like Daenerys to overlook obvious dissent, and it isn’t like Jorah to be withholding from her. Tyrion suspects the man confessed all to his queen in private.

Once Varys is standing beside him, he points his chin at the outside world of gray. “A harbinger of the days to come.”

Tyrion doesn’t believe that. This has to end well— it _has_ to be worth something, all the bloodshed and pain, in the end. “The northerners have a saying… the night is darkest before the dawn.”

“I can see why their words would be on your mind.” Varys turns away from the window, approaches the map. From where he stands, Tyrion can see the Stark sigil in the bottom right corner of the scroll. “May I?”

“Of course.” 

As Varys reads, Tyrion continues his absent examination of the world beyond the window. Perhaps the gloom is why Daenerys has taken to spending long hours in her chambers, with none but Missandei and occasionally Jorah permitted within.

“Is it nostalgia that moves you to write to her? Latent loyalty to the woman who was once your wife?”

“I felt sympathy for her,” Tyrion replies after a moment. _We have to protect her._ Shae’s words, Shae’s memory, darken his mind. He keeps his emotion from his face; an easy task, as his features are already grim. Suddenly, he wishes he was alone.

“Who wouldn’t?” Varys replies quietly. “I remember the girl she was… a babe in the woods. Shifted time and time again between grubby hands that held her like a pawn.”

Tyrion raises his brows, looking significantly at the place where Varys’s hands are joined and hidden in his sleeves. “Do you include your own hands in that, Lord Varys?”

Varys’s lips quirk, as if amused. Then he sighs. “It’s true… My actions weren’t entirely selfless. But I tried to help her.” 

“She’s resilient.”

Varys looks at him, and Tyrion senses the shift in tone before he speaks. “How long have you been writing to her?”

There’s no point in lying. “Weeks.”

Varys breaks their gaze. “Daenerys won’t be happy to learn that.”

“I’m _trying_ to help her.” Tyrion senses his patience slipping; tries to rein it in. “Just as you are, by going to Highgarden.”

Varys sighs. “We need allies… although, from what it seems from that letter, the north could be expensive one.”

Tyrion has to agree. But Daenerys needs them. “They’re the largest kingdom in Westeros.” 

Varys nods. “What else has Sansa told you?”

“This is her first response.”

“Interesting… I wonder what triggered it?”

“You,” Tyrion says, watching Varys’s eyes widen in surprise. “I told her we were traveling companions, so to speak… hinted at your loyalties no longer being with the monarch of King’s Landing. I told her of your fondness for little birds, advised her to create her own network… as you can see, I believe that piqued her interest.”

“Why would she not write to me directly?”

Tyrion shrugs, although he knows the answer. Sansa doesn’t know or trust Varys, not the way she trusts him.

“I sincerely hope she acts on your advice. It would be a useful play, with Lord Baelish in her home.”

It isn’t the first time Varys has connected an unrelated topic to Lord Baelish— Tyrion isn’t sure if he is more fascinated or truly afraid of the man; either reaction is, in his opinion, unwarranted. Littlefinger is clever, yes, but grimy and overly ambitious. He will die the Lord of Harrenhal. “What news do you have of him?”

Varys sighs. “Lord Baelish is currently preoccupied with the north. In the other regions, there have been some marriages… I’m not yet certain. But we would be wise not to underestimate him.”

“I see.” With Littlefinger’s presence, with everything Sansa wrote to him, it seems the north no longer resembles the place he once visited. Tyrion takes the scroll in his hands, running his eyes over the neatly printed words once more. Sansa always had a fine lady’s penmanship.

 

_Tyrion Lannister,_

_I hope this raven finds you well, and I thank you for your correspondence. I hope you and Lord Varys have found refuge somewhere far from Cersei'_ _s capital. I hope you will forgive my lack of response to your other_ _ravens_ _…_ _As you know, winter has come. With it comes the ancient threat of white walkers and an army of the dead intent on destroying the living. A learned man might dismiss this news as tall tales from the north. But you knew me once, and you knew my brother Jon Snow and the King in the North, who has been beyond the wall and fought them. We have written to every house, large and small, to seek assistance in the great war to come. My understanding is that you no longer ally yourself with the house of your birth, but if you find yourself in the company of another with an army, food, or other resources, I hope you will use your superior intellect to sway them north._

_You once told King Jon that books are to the mind what a whetstone is to a sword. Perhaps in one of those books you have come across some information on dragonglass, a resource we need. Kindly ask Lord Varys as well. His information has already proved most valuable._

_Sansa Stark_

 

From her words he’s deduced that she’s unaware of Daenerys Targaryen’s presence in Westeros. Unaware of his allegiance to her. For now, he’s decided against enlightening her.

 _King Jon. King in the North._ Daenerys won’t like that. “Did you know her brother was crowned king?”

Varys sighs. “I did.”

“Yet you kept it from our queen.”

“What would you have me do?”

Tyrion’s shoulders move in an echo of a shrug. It’s half a judgment, anyway, one knows Tyrion has no right to issue. They’ve both been moving beyond the confines of what Daenerys would allow, it seems.

“It’s not the right time,” Varys says. “We have other troubles.”

“Yes,” Tyrion agrees. Troubles they have plenty of. He draws a skin of wine from its tie around his waist; a mockery of a swordbelt. 

“I never met Jon Snow.” Varys faces away from the window to look fully on Tyrion, eyes bright. “What kind of a king would he be?”

Tyrion remembers the insolent, sullen boy, every emotion thrumming beneath his angry hands. He saw himself in him; rejected, resentful, yearning. But Tyrion is no longer that man, and he doubts that a journey from crow to king has left Jon unchanged.

“He is a king of one of Queen Daenerys’s kingdoms,” Tyrion answers, warning in his eye.

Varys smiles thinly. “You can’t blame me for being curious.”

Tyrion takes a long sip from his wine skin. “When do you leave?”

“Before noon,” Varys replies, returning to the window and looking below. Perhaps he can see the ship he’ll take, men bustling to prepare it. “A raven from Sansa Stark, an impending reunion with the Queen of Thorns… I feel transported to an earlier time. Everything is circular, isn’t it?”

Tyrion can’t find it within himself to agree. He never thought he’d find himself here.

“Are you optimistic about her?” Varys asks suddenly, and it takes Tyrion a moment to understand his meaning. “Once, I called Sansa Stark neither ally nor enemy. Do you know what she would be now?”

Tyrion knows the Starks have no love for the Targaryens. _But they haven_ _’t met Daenerys._ “It doesn’t matter… she isn’t queen. It will be Jon Snow’s decision.”

Varys arches a brow. “Then why aren’t you writing to him?”

* * *

Brienne is folded into the chair by the boy’s bedside, where she has been for the better part of ten days—this is the eleventh. Tormund has been counting them. He’s been busy with training the young ones to fight, the troubles with the knights which only seem to be getting worse, and Jon’s growing misery at the lack of leads on dragonglass—but he’s been counting.

He’s come to the room six times before, but every time the door was either closed and guarded or she was asleep. Tormund starts to walk in, then thinks better of it. He backtracks and knocks on the wall.

She turns at the sound and the pain in her face nearly has him stumbling.

“Oh, it’s you.” She doesn’t say it like it’s the worst thing that could have happened to her, and that’s more than enough for him. He walks around the side of the bed so he can look at her.

He’s known her for a while now; he’s seen her strength. Brienne doesn’t bend easy but she is bent now, doubled over in her seat. He would have thought her unbreakable but he can see the undeniable cracks, her mussed hair and her bloodshot eyes, lips red and raw from biting, and it would fill his mind with filthy thoughts to see her so undone, but she is so clearly _sad_ that the humor and innuendo flee from his body, leaving only grave concern.

“Are you eating?” He says, because he wants to bring her a rack of tender meat, anything she can stomach, anything she desires.

 “I’m _fine,_ _”_ she says tersely, and Tormund gets the feeling she uses that word a lot. She doesn’t look like the sort of woman prone to complaining. He would listen, though, if she did. He would listen to her complain for hours. He would kill whoever she complained about.

Tormund looks at the boy, still dead to the world with those dark bruises covering his face and neck. “I know you care for him.”

The earnest quiet in his voice moves her to look at him, for the first time without rage or annoyance in her eyes, only openness. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“He’s alive. He’ll wake up,” she says, fast and _hurt._ Tormund knows she is convincing to herself, not him. “Maester Wolkan said it.”

“Aye. The pretty crow said he’ll be right.”

“The pretty crow…” Her eyes turn skyward as she rolls the words around in her mouth, her nose scrunching adorably in thought. “Do you mean _Jon? King_ Jon?”

“I’m no kneeler. He’s not my king.”

Tormund grins as the rage touches her tired eyes once more— _ah,_ there it is. Life. Although he wishes he had something happier with which to move her.

“He’s my _friend,_ _”_ he adds before she can tear him apart with her mouth. (Gods, how he wishes she would tear him apart with her mouth.)

“If what you say is beyond the wall is coming, then—”

“It is.”

“Then we should all work together. Your army follows him… for all purposes, he _is_ your king.”

“He doesn’t need me to bend the knee to work with us. That’s _why_ we follow him.”

She presses her lips tightly together in the way he has come to know means she is conceding—he has seen it before. The night before she left Castle Black for Riverrun she had finally, _finally_ given into him—meaning she spoke more than three terse words to him.

Though it was by the lady Sansa’s urgent request that Brienne would be leaving, she was afraid of leaving her. Brienne couldn’t stop glaring at him, as if _he_ was the reason, but Tormund knew better. He knew she was afraid. He hadn’t forgotten the contents of that blasted letter.

It wasn’t his way to lay his sword at her feet, but that’s what he did. “I’ll protect her, too,” he vowed, earning himself a disbelieving snort, but he saw through it—saw the worry, the guilt already starting. “I won’t pretend I can do it good as you, but…”

She didn’t respond, but the suspicion and irritation in her eyes gave way to disbelief and the eventually, peace. Tormund had carried around that pride for days, that he’d been able to give her a bit of calm in this death-torn world, that _he_ _’d_ been her comfort.

Now he looks at her, more vulnerable than she was even that night, naked pain creasing her face.

“Remember what I said, before you rode south?”

He asked her the same question outside the healing man’s chambers weeks past, when it was Sansa within, Sansa bedridden. He didn’t get an answer, and he’s wondered since if she only pretended not to hear him.

Her cheeks pink and Tormund has his answer.

“It’s still true.” Tormund can’t tear his eyes from her face—she is eating his heart raw, and she has no idea. “And the boy is part of that, too.”

_What you fight for, I fight for. Who you protect, I protect._

Some ease takes over her expression and Tormund feels his heart calm. If those soft lines around her eyes are the closest he’ll get to seeing her smile, then he’ll brand the image to his mind.

 


	29. will you fix me up? will you show me hope?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Someone to Stay" Vancouver Sleep Clinic. 
> 
> I am doing [a fic giveaway (Enter Here!)](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/189439376106/okay-okay-so-somehow-some-freaking-how-ive-got) over on tumblr that ends on Monday 12/16. Enter before then if you want me to write a fic entirely tailored for you!
> 
> Suggested Skimming:  
> Chapter 27  
> Chapter 14, Chapter 19 (Sansa wounds)  
> Chapter 16 (Reina Perek), Chapter 22

By midday, Sansa feels already stretched to her limit. A tiresome breakfast with Littlefinger. A walk through the glass gardens with Lord Royce and Lord Glenmore. The added secret meetings with her orphans— Tyrion told her Varys called them a network of _little birds,_ but Sansa finds the name distasteful— have added an unpredictable element to her already long days.

But Sansa can’t find it in herself to resent the daylight hours, wearisome as they are. She remembers Jon looking out of the window on one slow morning; the snowfall of the night before had been heavy, and the sun reflecting on the blanket of white cast his face in brightness. “The sun will be buried soon,” he said, voice full of sorrow, and Sansa knew what caused his heart to be heavy. The sun _will_ be buried soon— and that’s when he will leave her, to fight for the dawn.

Every bit of him, gone— the plane of his chest beneath her cheek, the anchoring weight of his arm thrown across her, all the solid lines of him.

 _I can_ _’t be without him._ She stamps down the well of panic rising in her chest; the Lady of Winterfell will not show weakness in the middle of the great hall while everyone partakes in a midday meal. Everyone but Jon, who is dining privately with Davos today. Suddenly, fiercely, she wishes she could fight too.

Alys Karstark can fight. “I have some skill with a bow,” Alys tells her, face tinged pink as she relates childhood adventures of stealing the boys’ bows and arrows in Karhold. _Arya,_ Sansa thinks with a fond yet painful twinge in her chest. Yet Alys holds some of Sansa too— the loveliness and idealism of Sansa the girl still clings to Alys, not yet stamped out by the losses she’s endured and responsibilities thrust upon her. _There_ _’s nothing wrong with your girlhood dreams,_ Jon told her not long ago, but Sansa won’t allow herself to hope.

Sansa looks at the girl before her, primly sipping on her stew. _I hope, when it_ _’s all over, she returns home safe and whole._ It doesn’t feel so dangerous, so impossible, to hope for her.

“Oh no.” Alys’s cheeks go from pink to beet red. Her hands curl around the edge of the table and push her to stand. “Please excuse me, my lady,” she stammers.

Sansa nods, vaguely alarmed at the girl’s change in demeanor and sudden departure. “Are you alright, Lady Alys?”

“I am. I only regret having to cut our meal short. I hope I’m not being terribly rude by leaving you alone.”

“I won’t be alone.” Instead of sitting at the head table, Sansa has begun to seat herself among the people during informal meals. A lesson learned from observing Jon. Jon does it out of genuine fondness for the free folk and some of the northern lords, yet he’s expressed to her the added political benefit of hearing their talk and learning of their problems firsthand. It’s valuable tool she can’t overlook, although Sansa has found her own enjoyment in it. Today she is surrounded by Alys’s kinsmen and other northerners. Just as Alys turns away, Sansa sees Lyanna Mormont approaching.

Her eyes are on Alys, and when she arrives her blunt words are for her too. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Lyanna glares at Alys, although her eyes soften when she turns to acknowledge Sansa with a nod. “My lady.”

“I have not,” Alys protests, eyes shifting.

“There’s nothing to fear.” Lyanna smirks slightly, and despite her smaller stature it seems as if she’s looking down at Alys. A common effect of the fierce little lady. _“If_ you admit you cheated.”

“I _didn_ _’t—_ I resent that insinuation.” Alys balls her hands into fists and glances at Sansa, two of many poor attempts to maintain her composure, while Lyanna continues to raise her brows and tap her foot and needle her. As the bickering continues, Sansa is vaguely surprised at her ability to be amused by the display. She is doubly surprised at her curiosity to learn what it was Alys bested Lyanna in.

“If you didn’t cheat, prove it,” Lyanna issues a final challenge.

“I owe you no such courtesy.”

 _“Prove it._ Teach me.”

Alys huffs, nodding for the tenth time at Sansa with embarrassment in her eyes as she turns to leave again. “I’m sorry, my lady—”

Lyanna’s hand on her elbow blocks her departure. “I want you to teach me.”

Alys’s dark eyes are curious as they rove over Lyanna, perhaps sensing for sincerity. Sansa already knows Lyanna never speaks a word she doesn’t mean. “Alright,” Alys agrees, clearly wary. “You won’t scare my horse off again, will you?”

A laugh bubbles in Sansa’s throat, pleasantly surprising her, unnoticed by the two girls who take their seats across from her.

Lyanna rolls her eyes. “No, I won’t spook _Rosewater_ _…”_

“Tea, my lady?” Sansa turns at the low whisper, finding Reina Perek at her elbow, smiling at her. “I had them bring fresh lemon.”

“Thank you, Reina. I’d like a cup.”

Her eyes follow Reina’s fingers as they pinch the bright yellow wedge of lemon above her tea, follow the cup’s path to her lips. She doesn’t breathe until Reina nods.

A week ago, Sansa was as resolute as ever in her position not to use a taster, would have fought Jon on it until he tired of the notion. But Jon proved just as stubborn as she, tasting every dish and cup before it had the chance to touch her lips. Watching Reina test her food for poison is no easier than she expected… but watching Jon do it was unbearable, turned her stomach with anxiety to the point that she couldn’t eat for days.

So, she caved to Jon’s request, and it was Jon who chose Reina. She would have been more active in the selection process— _should_ have been more active— but the whole matter sickened her, so she allowed Jon to handle it on his own.

It surprised her to learn he’d chosen a woman. “It was her plea that moved me,” was all Jon said, and when pressed he added, “She fell to her knees. I believe she would die for you.”

This show of devotion didn’t surprise her— Sansa remembered Reina’s search for direwolves, her staunch allegiance with House Stark. _You fought for us, my lady. We don_ _’t want Winterfell to ever fall again._

Reina has regarded her duty with grave care, joining the line of her guard as another one of her protectors. No one begrudges her that place; Sansa has heard her other guards commending Reina on her daily sacrifice. The word twisted her stomach and Sansa pretended she didn’t hear it. She hopes it will never come to that.

Her taster has become Sansa’s most constant companion since Brienne and Podrick. The thought of them makes Sansa's eyes burn; she resolves to visit them when the meal is done. Although Reina is far from unpleasant company. Sansa certainly didn’t mind her presence this morning when Littlefinger cornered her in the hall and requested a private breakfast in his chamber, a thing he believes himself entitled to now that she’s visited his chamber _once._ As her taster, Reina could be present throughout the meal in a way her guard couldn’t. Sansa knew it irritated Littlefinger to have a third party present, but he couldn’t object to her taster, and she took some pleasure in having so simply outmaneuvered him.

When the meal is done and Reina dismissed for now, Alora walks Sansa to Podrick’s chamber.

“Anything since this morning?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“Everything is important, even if it’s small,” Sansa gently reminds her. Alora has proved to be an excellent guard; a good fighter who follows orders, with a talent for discretion. But her straightforward manner isn’t compatible with the convoluted politics surrounding them. _A good thing,_ Sansa reminds herself.

“Yes, my lady. Well, Lord Hornwood is negotiating a marriage for one of his kin. To someone named Tarly.”

“Tarly?” Sansa thinks of Jon’s friend from the Watch. Something sit uneasy in her belly— it’s too close. “Very well. What of the snake?”

“He’s been slithering,” Alora responds. “Button saw it.”

Sansa knows the girl, has learned all the orphans’ names by now. “Do I need to meet with her?”

“If you like…” Alora drops her voice, already low, so that it’s barely audible. “She saw him go into the crypts.”

“I see.” Sansa is careful not to show her disgust. Her stomach turns at the thought of Littlefinger defiling the crypts— a special place, a _Stark_ place—with his doings.

They part ways in front of Podrick’s door, and as Sansa raises her hand to knock, she thinks fervently of her salvation— tonight she would sleep with Jon curled around her like a cloak. She waits eagerly, as she does every day, for the moment she can fall into bed.

* * *

That night as Sansa and Jon unwind by the fire— he came to the lord’s chamber a bit early, Reina following behind with ale and wine, unnecessary as Sansa has no intention of indulging tonight— Sansa’s still mulling over Alora’s news. Dirty dealings in the crypts are offensive to her on an apparent level, but the marriage arrangement… it shouldn’t bother her. She isn’t sure why it does. Perhaps she’s simply projecting her own fears and expectations onto others.

“Has Lord Hornwood spoken to you of marriage?”

Jon sputters around a mouthful of ale, coughing until Sansa jumps up and pounds him on the back, apologies on her lips.

“What? _No_ _…_ has someone been bothering you about marriage, Sansa?!”

“Nothing like that,” she assures him, suddenly flushed. “Your friend, Samwell Tarly… As a man of the Watch, he can’t wed, can he?”

Jon’s brow furrows, clearly confused at this leap. “I’m not sure who’ll hold him to his vow,” he sighs. “But, yes. Why?”

“I heard something of a marriage between a northern house and a Tarly,” she explains.

Jon shrugs. “He has a brother and a sister… it can’t be Sam.”

“Why not? You said no one would hold him to his vow.”

“No, because… he has a woman. A free woman. I’m not sure she would embrace southern traditions.”

Sansa isn’t sure if she’s imagining the bloom of color in his face, if it’s the ale or the firelight. Something uncomfortable settles in her stomach, the certainty that it’s something else altogether. _A free woman._

“Was that what it was like for you?”

He blinks, and although Sansa too is shocked at her boldness, she holds her face in that neutral, assured place. She’s never truly asked about Ygritte before, nothing besides a few cursory questions in Castle Black after Tormund had mentioned her. Sansa was surprised to learn her brother had loved and lost, and speaking of her didn’t feel as odd then. Perhaps because everything between them was new.  

“I… I’m not sure what you’re asking. I never— Ygritte was never my wife.”

“By our, ahem… _southern_ traditions, perhaps. What of hers?”

Surprise flickers across his face again— perhaps he is surprised at her ability to tell the difference, at her knowledge of the true north’s customs. Sansa bristles at the insult, imagined or not, thinking of the hours upon hours she’s spent in the cold of the free folk settlement. As long as they are in Winterfell, they are her people too. _He still thinks of me as an empty-headed child who only cares for the south._

A childish thought— one she knows isn’t true. But she _feels_ childish— irked, probing.

“I never stole her,” Jon answers, clearly perplexed by this inquiry. “She was not my wife by any law or custom.”

“Ah.” A lover, not a wife— free of duty, full of pleasure. Sansa can barely wrap her head around the concept. 

She realizes Jon is staring at her closely, eyes gone soft again, and she straightens her back. “No one can truly steal another… though I don’t mean to lay judgment to their customs. But a woman’s identity is not erased when she becomes her husband’s… northern or otherwise.”

Two husbands forced on her, Littlefinger stealing her in the night. _Lady Sansa is a Bolton_ _… or is she a Lannister?_

“Sam said something similar,” Jon said, the corners of his eyes crinkling at what must be a pleasant memory. “He said he can’t steal Gilly because she’s a person, not a thing.”

“I believe we would get along.”

“I agree,” Jon responds with an eagerness that makes her smile. “You do have some similarities… you’re both intelligent. Both hate the cold. He’d cross our brothers, stealing their furs so he could bundle up…. southern blood.”

He shakes his head fondly, completely oblivious to the way he’s set her— _southern—_ blood to boil. She smiles tightly at him. “I am of the north too, brother.”

His eyes flare. Then he ducks his chin. “Of course, Sansa. Northern through and through.”

His apology does nothing to dim the stoke of irritation in her breast. She mutters a line about being tired and hides behind the dressing screen under the guise of changing out of her dress, although all she does for a few moments is try to calm her racing heartbeat— until she remembers the dressing screen would show her shadow, and he would see her standing still if he looks this way.

Sansa undoes the laces at her sides, soft motions that do nothing to calm her. Once they are loose she furiously twists out of her dress, eager to be free of its suddenly constricting weight, to be in bed. To be as they were _before,_ before the thought of Jon and his lover, a kind of love she has never been allowed to taste. Before the crushing reminder that no one will ever love her that way.

Before she called him _brother._

Something pulls across her lower back, making her eyes smart and pulling a soft gasp from her. She bites her lip in the following breath, stands perfectly still until the throb of pain dulls to a merely unpleasant itch.

“Sansa?”

She holds in a shaky sigh. The sound of distress she made was barely audible, but of course he heard it. “I’m alright.”

“You’re _not._ Don’t—” The savage bite of his words stills her motion of pushing her dress past her hips. She can’t see his face, can’t see his eyes, but she can picture them perfectly, can imagine the rest of his unspoken words. She is carried back in time— _don_ _’t lie to me about this Sansa, by all the gods, don’t lie about this—_ to the day he saw her bloodstained shift and confronted her about neglecting her wounds. She shivers, arms crossing over her bare chest. How far they’ve come since then.

“It’s your—” She hears him choke, hears the rattle of his breath. “You need the balm.”

It’s not a question, but she gives him an answer. “I do.”

It would be so easy for him to say anything else. He could offer to summon Brienne; she would never refuse, even in her current state. He could offer the maester once more. Instead—

“I can.”

Instead, he offers himself.

“I’ll do it, Sansa.” In her mind’s eye she can picture his expression, a twist of resolve. “If you’ll allow me to.”

She doesn’t think she could have done it, if he’d left it to her to ask. Hand shaking, she reaches for a nightgown she’s never had cause to wear. Thin, pretty fabric, impossible for her to remove on her own with its laces all the way down the back. But it won’t be her hands unlacing the gown tonight. Her breath hitches; she pulls on a robe over it before she can think, grabs the jar of balm and returns to the chamber.

Brow furrowed, lips parted. Eyes bottomless. Shoulders high. Fists by his sides relaxing when he sees her. Jon is standing by the bed already, making it that much easier for her. Sansa doesn’t have to say or do anything, nothing except sit and offer her back.

Suddenly, it feels like a vulnerability she can’t afford. Her arms tighten around herself as she approaches him— the bed— _him._ She didn’t think she’d ever show her body to anyone again. Although it took a painful journey to trust Brienne and Maester Wolkan, neither of them truly violate that. _Neither does Jon,_ she thinks with a bitter smile. He is, after all, her brother.

_Wrong._

She keeps her eyes on the ground, on his boots that overwhelm her bare toes, until his finger hooks her chin, drags her gaze to his.

“Where does it hurt?”

 _Everywhere. Inside, too._ She is thoroughly marked; thighs, breasts, backs of her legs. Spine, hands, hollow heart. She has a wonderful, devastating suspicion Jon could fix it all.

But that’s not what he’s asking. “The places I can’t reach,” she answers in a whisper, all she can manage. “My back.”

His hand releases her chin and she turns away quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed. From the corner of her eye she can see him still standing as he was. She wonders why he hasn’t moved, why he isn’t touching her. She pulls her robe off to spur him, lets it pool around her waist. Sharp inhale of breath; still, he doesn’t move.

“You haven’t given me your consent.”

Her chin trembles. When has such a thing mattered to anyone? In response, Sansa holds out the jar to him. “Please.”

It’s more than he asked for. She glances at him, sees his eyes burning.

Jon takes the jar. She feels the bed dip behind her with his weight, and she holds her head fixed forward. She feels his fingers gently skimming her arms, pushing the robe the rest of the way off. The nightgown still covers her; the sheet of her hair. But then her hair is in his fist, gathered and swept over her shoulder then released so it pours down her front. His hands are soft and open again as they trail over the laces of her nightgown.

She holds her breath as he undoes them, counting eight down her spine. His fingers work slow, and he hesitates before the last one, a meaningful pause.

 _Wrong,_ a hiss unfurling from a low place inside, somewhere around where his fingertips ghost the base of her spine. Unwelcome. Unheeded, as Jon moves his hands up when he’s untied the last of the laces, palms curving over her shoulders, fingers stretching across her collarbones.

He stays there a moment, holding her in his hands. Preparing her, soothing her. Giving her a chance to turn back— a thing that doesn’t feel possible. Even if she pulled her robe back on, even if she demanded he never return to her bed, where would they go?

The movement of his hands jolts her out of her thoughts. He slides the nightgown past her shoulders, her hands unconsciously rising to hold the front of it to her chest. She feels the panels of the nightgown fall away, feels every inch of suddenly exposed skin prickle.

She feels, _hears_ his hands tremble for a single second before they’re snatched away, hears the sharp hiss through gritted teeth.

Numbly, Sansa wonders how bad it looks, to draw such a terrible sound from him. Her eyes go to the looking glass, still covered with her cloak from her first night in Winterfell. Jon has noticed it, of course, but never questioned it.

Now he knows, he _sees._ He sees her struggle and her shame. Her strength, her will to survive.

He hasn’t touched her yet, and her stomach _hurts,_ coiled tight in anticipation, waiting.

Then, a sound of utter agony. _“Sansa.”_

His pain upsets her. Her eyes fill with tears. “You already knew,” she says hotly, an accusation.

“Thought I did,” he rasps. “Every time I think I know, I…” His voice breaks, gathers into a broken whisper. “I should have come for you.”

She bites her lip; feels a sob well in her throat. _“Jon—”_

“No. _I should have come for you._ _”_ He repeats himself with the ferocity of a bastard-born warrior-king. “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought it. My biggest— _only_ regret. I should have left the Wall the moment I knew father couldn’t protect you anymore.”

“They would have killed you,” she whispers.

“Then I would have died,” he allows, as if it’s nothing. “But I might have saved you first.”

It’s heavy; the weight of his guilt, the sour hope of considering such alternative paths her life might have taken. His _complete_ disregard for his life. And Sansa thinks again how bad her scars must look, if he would have traded his life to prevent them.

Movement behind her; she hears him stumble with the jar, hears it pop open. The foul, sharp smell of herbs and mint that always makes her nose twitch fills the room. Sansa imagines him dipping his fingers and spreading the balm over his palms as he rubs his hands together. She shivers.

The first touch falls between her shoulder blades, tentative. His hand jolts; another breath sucked in through his teeth. But then he does his duty, as he always does.

He takes his time. His hands work methodically, firm touch over ridged skin. It’s the first time she’s felt the shape of her scars through something other than pain. Warmth—a warmth that doesn’t belong here—swells within her at the realization, causes her to clutch her gown tighter to her chest.

His hands instantly freeze, pull away. “Did I hurt you?”

 _“No.”_ She’s shocked by the cold, how bereft she feels without his touch. He returns his hands to her quickly, large and warm, and she breathes easier.

Sansa doesn’t know how long they remain in this quiet motion, but it feels all too quick when his hands settle at her hips. When she looks around, she sees the candles have burned low. Her fogged mind registers that he is still touching her, when there is no need.

“I’ve finished,” he says, hoarse. “Unless you want me to do it again.”

 _Yes,_ she thinks fervently, shocked at the urge. She swallows. “That’s alright. You… it felt quite thorough.”

“Good.”

The word has bite, fury behind it that pushes her. “You’re angry.”

“Aye. At every man who hurt you. At Robb. At myself.”

Her head is swimming. “Robb?”

“He should have come for you, in King’s Landing,” he says quietly. “And I should have come for you a thousand times over. We should have done better by you.”

Tears roll down her cheeks. She’s never allowed herself to think it, once Robb was gone. She buried her bitterness along with her dashed hopes, only thought the best of her dead brother.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, hands tightening on her hips. “Don’t cry. I shouldn’t have spoke ill of him.”

His fingers flex across the flesh they hold, a motion she recognizes as a parting one. Sansa seizes his hand with one of her own before he can leave her, interlacing their fingers, dragging the brutal knot to her lips.

Jon shifts with her, closer, so close she can feel him shaking behind her. His tunic never touches her back— he holds himself carefully apart from her exposed skin— but his curls skim the side of her neck, his beard scratches her shoulder. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he speaks into her skin.

 _“Yes,_ you do,” she insists, tight grip bruising the hand interlaced with hers. She doesn’t know if it’s true. She doesn’t care.

He pulls back, pulling his chin from the hollow of her shoulder. She thinks he is withdrawing, afraid again of hurting her— _oh Jon, this could never hurt—_ when she feels his forehead press to the nape of her neck, the unbearably soft brush of his eyelashes on her skin.

The damp trickle of his tears, salt mingling with the balm coating her back.

It shocks her, chokes her, breaks her as she always knew Jon’s tears would. She kisses his hand again, and again, holds it at the open seam of her mouth. “Jon… Jon…”

His hand releases her hip, a breath shuddering out of her at the unexpected loss, but then he traces the small of her back with a thumb. Slowly he stretches out the rest of his fingers, spanning scars from Ramsay, Joffrey’s kingsguard, stretches of unmarred skin. He holds his hand there, holds all of her.

His head rolls forward— she feels the push of his nose, the scratch of his beard— pressing a single kiss to the space between her shoulders.

They stay as they are long past the candles burning to their wicks. There’s no need to move. 

* * *

Bird bones in his hands. Despite the iron he knows she’s made of, that’s what she _felt_ like, skin and bones between his palms. And Jon’s mind can’t comprehend, truly can’t make it _fit,_ how anyone could look at her and seek to break her.

 _But she_ _’s not broken,_ he thinks to calm himself, to regulate his breathing. Sansa’s half gone to sleep, curled up at his side.

One kiss— it was all he allowed himself, even if it broke his heart to stop. _Enough._ He’s taken enough liberties. He’s appalled at his behavior, disgusted with himself that he had responded to Sansa’s vulnerability and Sansa’s trust by focusing on _his_ guilt and his regrets, on his futile scramble to place blame.

But the sight of her scars broke that already fragile dam that held the self-loathing at bay, reminding him viciously of how he’d barely entertained the notion of looking for his sisters once their father died. When he did wonder at their fates, he mostly thought of Arya. Shame rattles him. He’d given her so little thought while she was suffering, while monsters _brutalized_ her—

A sleepy mumble. “You’re shaking.”

He winces. “Sorry.”

“I won’t ask you to do that again.”

“You didn’t ask.” Careful not to shift the arm that serves as her pillow, he turns onto his side to look at her. Her lips are parted, face lax with sleep. Her eyes are barely open. “I offered. Not just for tonight.”

Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. Her hand bunches in his tunic.

Fierce tenderness blooms in his chest. “No one will ever hurt you again. Do you understand me?”

It’s a promise he’s made a hundred times, but it feels different now. Charged by the sight of her suffering. _It always feels different, you fool._

But she nods, the slightest dip of her chin before her eyes slip all the way closed, and that’s all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been _dreaming_ of writing Jon seeing/healing Sansa's scars, y'all... get ready for the next chapter, it is a RIDE.
> 
>  
> 
> [3/29/20 UPDATE](https://missfaber.tumblr.com/post/613946581075525632/im-reallyyyy-excited-yall-im-actually-going-to)


	30. i run to you, love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (x) Chapter title from "I Run To You" by MISSIO. 
> 
> _*hello,*_ friends! welcome back. I hope you're all staying safe and (moderately, realistically, somewhat) happy in these weird times. to those of you diving back into this fic after all this time away, thank you *so much* for your patience as I went through a bit of a transition period. (new state, new job, creating a life here.) fic writing fell by the wayside, especially when it came to a complex fic like this. it took quite a few tries to immerse myself in this world, these voices, again. (aside: thank god for my outline, and the fact that I already knew what was coming next, scene by scene, or else it would have been so much harder.) 
> 
> I promised a ride, and here you go: this extra-long chapter, centered on love in its many forms. this is the start of quite a few journeys. 
> 
> suggested skimming: (I definitely recommend doing some re-reading as even I could barely remember anything about this fic, lol):  
> Chapter 28 last scene, Chapter 22 first scene (Brienne)  
> Chapter 29 (JUST BECAUSE. JONSA. and it’s the last chapter. read as much delicious chapter 20-29 jonsa as you want bc the bubble is BURSTING)  
> Chapter 11 (Arya, Cersei, Jaime, hints lie within, I literally outlined these two chapters to be mirrors of each other oop!) 
> 
> let's _get back into it._

 

The room has gone drafty again, licks of ice at Brienne’s exposed skin until she stirs awake. Still it takes her a long while to rise— several minutes? More? She doesn’t know. Eventually she rises to address the problem, the clicking window pane, the latch that has gone loose. Normally Brienne wouldn’t let such a problem persist for days, would have brought it to the attention of the woodworker or more likely fixed it herself.

The cold of the glass shocks her out of the dredges of sleep, and she _feels—_ oh, she feels everything.

Brienne clambers back to the chair and throws herself into it, brutally twisting her neck away from the sight of Podrick. Instead she stares into the black square, the endless void of the sky through the window. When her head starts to pound, she looks at something else. She’s become quite good at this, choosing something new to look at with eyes that don’t see.

Even in the dark, the golden lion’s head glints proudly from the corner. _It_ _’s yours. It will always be yours._ It isn’t dulled by neglect. The blade is sharp. Tormund has been sneaking in to sharpen the sword and shine its hilt regularly. He thinks she doesn’t know, he thinks she’s asleep. But the oaf couldn’t manage to be stealthy if his life hung in the balance, it seems, for every time he stole into the room when he thought she was asleep, his boisterous movements woke her.

Brienne stares at the sword dimly, with eyes that don’t see. These are the only eyes that work for her now. She looks at Pod with those eyes and it eases the sight; the dark purple spots that mean nothing, they _must_ mean nothing, because he’ll be alright, won’t he? _Won_ _’t_ he—?

Shuddering breath that slowly turns even. Though her heart still beats quick as a rabbit’s, a pang of shame quickly follows. More than a fortnight she’s spent in this room, a shameful number of days to have spent in a chair. There are more duties for her than can be counted— soldiers who need training, the Lady of Winterfell who needs guarding.

Sansa has been generous about Brienne’s absence. “I am well guarded,” Sansa has reassured her time and time again, even more fervently when Brienne jumped to her feet and muttered a line about returning to her service. Brienne trusts Sansa’s Mormont guards as well as she can trust people she’s only known a few months. _Can_ _’t trust a kneeler._ Tormund’s words come back to her; she doesn’t remember when he said them, one night as they dined in the great hall. Those nights blur together now, distant memories. She doesn’t even think he was speaking to her. She thinks he was looking at Littlefinger. _Trust isn_ _’t earned for a kneeler, it’s bought._  

The truth is, Brienne can’t be certain Sansa is safe, and that should make it the simplest choice, not a choice at all. She should return to her duties. Drawn despite her best efforts, her unseeing eyes slide over Pod’s still form. Only a few days ago did his chest start rising and falling with his breathing. The maester called it a positive development.

Pod’s skin is so sallow it’s tinged with green. He looks dead, but he lives and breathes. Renly was _warm_ — the same in every way as he was in life— when she held his lifeless body in her arms and screamed for his loss. She watched him die. She mourned her lady Catelyn. She left her father, left Jaime… always leaving others behind. Duty compelled her. It kept her moving. But now she is still. Pod has rendered her still, has frozen her from the inside out, and Brienne doesn’t know why this bumbling boy with his wide and frequent grins has crawled under her skin so, has _changed_ her.

 _Nothing_ _’s more hateful than failing to protect the one you love._ It’s Pod she admitted this to, Pod who pulled from her the story of the night of the ball on Tarth, the loveliest night of her life. He is sweet and good and innocent. Knights are meant to defend the innocent.

But she never was a knight.

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. She barely feels them. Perhaps the loss of him— just the threat of the loss of him— feels different because Pod isn’t a king or mother of kings, as Renly and Catelyn had been. He isn’t a player of the game. He’s a boy— just a boy. He is someone who should have seen injury on a battlefield, deserved an honorable death if that’s what the gods wanted.

No. He deserves to _live._

“He’s going to live,” Sansa, the maester, they were all fond of saying it. Sansa was a frequent occupant of the only other chair in the room, sometimes appearing there like a silent specter when Brienne opened her eyes. That had been the case when she visited earlier today, when the sky was still bright. She had woken to find Sansa in the chair, chin resting on her fist, eyes frozen somewhere far away. She was weary, or troubled; Brienne’s unseeing eyes could no longer discern between the two.

When Sansa learned that Brienne hadn’t eaten— the servants bring her food regularly, but  only Sansa can force her to touch it— she went to whisper something to someone beyond the door. One of her other guards, no doubt; Brienne didn’t turn to look. She stared at her lap until a knock fell on the door, one Sansa rose to answer, and only then did Brienne realize some time had passed.

The low murmur of conversation between Sansa and whoever stood beyond the door was soft enough to lull Brienne to sleep. She was tired, so tired, and a part of her registered surprise at how tiring it was to do nothing— she’d never done so little in her life. Her eyes drooped. Until— a high pitched whisper, almost a whine—

“I _can_ _’t.”_

Not Sansa’s voice, that much she knew. Brienne found herself curious enough to lift her chin from her chest and look back. The new girl, the food taster, was shaking her head, a grimace twisting her face. “I can’t go in there, my lady, I just… I’m sorry… I’ve tried everything, it’s safe.”

“It’s alright, Reina,” Sansa soothed, taking the tray of food, ushering the girl back from the open doorway, from the sight of Podrick that seemed to agitate her so.

And it was that, the sheen of tears in Reina’s eyes, the unconcealed pity in her glance, that started her own.

Once again Brienne offered to return to her post, when she had calmed. But Sansa shook her head, gently, generously. “You are needed here.”

Now Brienne wonders about that. _Am I needed here, or do I need to be here?_

Podrick doesn’t know of her presence, doesn’t seem to be bettered by it. _He_ doesn’t benefit— Sansa doesn’t benefit, her king doesn’t benefit. _Selfish._ But Brienne doesn’t even know if she herself benefits— when has idleness benefited anyone? Her presence here doesn’t dull the pain, it doesn’t make her numb. Brienne has never been numb, not for one moment in her uncharmed life. Every mocking laugh, every word of derision, every well of shame, every ounce of want… every feeling was felt sharply, a wave knocking her whole body flat to the wet sand, and then it consumed her.

There’s no shame in feeling; Brienne believes that. But mourning a boy who isn’t dead… sitting idle when she has her duty… well, there is shame in that. Her father, Renly, Catelyn… Jaime… none of them would recognize her, this broken woman in a chair .

When morning comes, she leaves Pod’s bedside.

* * *

First light turns the sky a slate gray, then a pale robin’s egg blue. A pretty color, and Sansa is awake to see it. For a moment, she wonders what woke her— she feels no pain, only warmth. Too much warmth. She raises her head and sees a gently rising tide of white fur at her— _their_ — feet. Ghost must have joined them sometime in the night; her guards all know to open the door to the direwolf no matter the hour. She returns her head to the feather pillow, content and sleepy, and an iron band tightens around her waist.

Jon stirs behind her, responding to her slight movement even in his sleep. She feels his nose tousle her hair, the scratch of his beard on the back of her neck as he settles. Unbidden, a smile turns her lips, her thoughts turning to spring and sunlight.

_This, always this._

Sleep has almost reclaimed her when a knock falls on the door. The sound is gentle— a slight rap, too soft a knock to be one of her guards’— yet Jon jolts awake, rising to one elbow behind her. Alarm fills her. If her guards are outside, and they _must_ be outside, why would someone else knock and not they?

The alarm in Jon’s eyes as he looks at her tells her he has reached the same realization.

Jon shuffles away, the withdrawal of his heat leaving her bereft, and Sansa realizes his intent. “No,” she whispers, moving to stop him with a hand on his chest.

Instantly, he stills. His eyes drop to where two of her fingertips graze the light dusting of soft black hair at his chest, the skin exposed by the drag of his loose tunic in sleep. His chest rises under her hand— warm, alive— as he takes in a breath. Then he meets her eyes. “Sansa.”

“It’s my chamber,” she reminds him. “I will open the door.”

A slight grimace, a response to the shame she unintentionally reminded him of. He is not her gallant lord husband, able to protect his fair wife by facing the dangers outside their chamber door. He has no place in this chamber; he has no place in her bed. Sansa watches as painful indecision plays over his face, propriety and the desire to protect her honor warring with his instinct to keep her safe.

“I don’t think someone who means me harm would knock,” she soothes him, willing herself to believe the rationalization. He lets her go forward; she ignores the small spasm in her chest.

But then she hears a low whistle. “Ghost— get up, boy.” A moment later the irritated but dutiful direwolf is at her side.

Sansa opens the door then, holding it partially closed to hide the chamber from view. She looks down at her visitor and breathes a sigh of relief, despite the furrowed brow and angry expression on the familiar face.

“I’m sorry, my lady—” Jurnor’s apology is quickly cut off.

“Your lady knight is causing quite a commotion in the yard.” Lyanna Mormont sounds as if she’s scolding her. “Most of my men are already in your service, and the rest of them can’t uphold the Mormont standard in the battle for the dawn with your guard distracting them from training.”

Sansa’s mind sifts through Lyanna’s many words to the only ones that matter, the ones that she suspects Lyanna came to deliver. _Brienne is back?_

Sansa draws in a breath before raising a brow at Lyanna. “I hope you didn’t tell her so, my lady.”

“Not in so many words.”

“You’re known to be sharp of tongue, and Brienne is not just my guard, but my confidante and friend.”

Sansa thinks she sees a smirk on the girl’s face, already walking away. “I only said ‘welcome back.’”

Her heart beats a steady, audible rhythm in her chest as she slowly closes the door. Slow,  because the sooner she closes it the sooner she will have to open it again. The sooner everything will change.

 _And it will change, won_ _’t it?_ She’s happy that Brienne has chosen to leave her vigil at Podrick’s bedside, will be even happier to see her friend without pain creasing her face, although she doubts it. Brienne is a creature of duty, and she expects this is what moved her rather than any diminished pain. And yet…

With Brienne as her guard, Jon will no longer come to her bed.

Sansa knows it—even if she reminds herself that Brienne has other duties, that she has other guards— knows it with with dreadful certainty, because she knows Jon. He will convince himself that she no longer needs him. He will remove himself from her to spare her even one judgmental look from someone she holds in high esteem.

Everything will change. It was always going to, but she had convinced herself it would be Jon’s leaving to fight the great war that would take him from her. Not this, not now, not so early, not by something _good._

“Did you hear?” An irrational part of her fears that Jon has already disappeared, vanished from her room like a specter, nothing more than a ghost like the other Starks. Yet she cannot force her eyes to sweep the chamber for him. She needs to hear his voice.

“Aye.”

He is closer than she thought he’d be— only a few paces away, half hidden by the wardrobe. Close enough to protect her if the need arose.

Jon steps even closer, his bare feet appearing in her view of the floor. His stillness forces her to look at him.

“I have to go see her.” Then she corrects herself, hating how she made her friend and protector sound like a burden. “I _want_ to.”

“Of course.” His voice is rough from sleep but so, so soft. She lets herself look at him like this, imprints him to memory. Hair loose as he never wears it outside her chamber, curls tousled and a bit untidy from sleep. The shape of his brows, his beard, the hair above his lip. The little lines feathering out from the corners of his eyes. The curve of his lips, impossibly plump even in the dryness of the cold morning. The near permanent lilac grey shadows underneath his eyes that had started to fade.

He is looking at her, too.

A hand rises unconsciously to her chest, fiddling with the low neckline of her nightgown. Her pretty, diaphanous nightgown she’s only worn once. She wonders how much Jon can see in the morning light, then quickly locks the dangerous thought away. 

Besides, she has already been seen by him, held by him. She’s never trusted another with her body, with her nakedness, as she did last night. Any vulnerability is a pittance compared to that.

She remembers looking at him like this once, when she first beheld him in Castle Black. Then, she was struggling to fit the broad-shouldered, bearded man who stood before her to the surly boy she remembered. Then, she was also afraid he would disappear. Then, she was overcome with gratitude and wonder and… yes, _yes,_ love.

The roots of which she still feels, steady as those of the weirwood, but it has grown into something brilliant and unnatural and horrible and _true_ and completely, utterly consuming.

_No. No no no—_

Sansa turns from him sharply, faltering, nearly losing her balance as she twists on her heel. Jon is beside her in an instant, but she stiffens as his hand molds to her elbow. He immediately pulls away.

 _Love no one but your children,_ Cersei had warned her. _Love makes you weak._ But Cersei hadn’t told her the whole truth, of course she hadn’t, Cersei who had also felt this cursed love.

Love makes you damned.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly.

Sansa finds her balance as the chair beneath her takes the pressure off her feet, finds her voice after suckling from a glass of tepid water. “Yes,” she responds firmly, even as her mind spins. What does she know of love? Especially the love of a man? She thought she loved a boy once, but it was foolish and hollow and untrue. She has only loved her family. She has only loved Starks.

(But she also loved Shae and Margaery, loves Brienne and Podrick and Theon and Lyanna and Alys and Alora and Reina and the little orphans and all her people—)

Once, she was accused of having a tender heart, by the man who wanted to own it. She thought that girl was dead. _It_ _’s not the same._ Yes, she will care for them, and do everything in her power to keep them from harm. But Jon… _Jon—_

Sansa bites the inside of her cheek to keep herself from making a sound, from releasing the scream building in her lungs.

“Brienne is the best of your guard,” Jon tells her, clearly sensing her distress, thinking she needs the reminder. Then, lower, a plea: “This is a good thing.”

A lump forms in her throat. Of course she loves him. He is a Stark. He is her brother.

* * *

Daylight has not fully broken, yet the training yard is half full with men and women sparring before breaking their fast. Brienne feels the urgency, the desperation, in every jab and thrust. Many of these people aren’t highborn, and they know better than most that no one will stand between them and death. That the only thing they can rely on is their swords and shields, their teeth and claws.

And it probably won’t be enough.

Her presence here has drawn many a curious eye, but it’s far from the worst attention Brienne’s received. It only irritates her to distract them from their training when these people have much to improve on.

“Back to work!” A few reprimands and a fixed, full scowl seem to restore their focus.

Until the Lady of Winterfell descends the steps and joins them in the mud.

A wide berth forms around her. The edge of her pale blue cloak drags through the mud, blackening, and a man drops to lift it, a few others following his lead. Sansa stops them. Wide-eyed wonder meets Sansa’s calm, royal composure.  Most of them have probably never been in her presence, have never stood so close to her. A ripple goes through the crowd. _Red wolf._  

When she’s close, Brienne drops to one knee, lays her sword at her lady’s feet.

“Brienne… please rise.”

Brienne looks up at Sansa, sees the ripple of emotion across her face. Sansa’s a bit like her in this way— Brienne realized it long ago, when she watched her forgive a man who betrayed her family, watched her put all her trust in her estranged brother, watched her befriend free folk and inspire devotion. She feels everything, too.

“I return to your service, my lady.”

Sansa’s mouth quivers. She shocks her by dropping to her level, sullying her cloak, soaking her dress to her knees with mud and snow. Sansa’s small, gloved hands encircle hers.

“You never left.”

* * *

Sansa’s head pounds as she brings the raven’s scroll to her eyes to better read the tiny, scratched print. Her efforts are futile; it’s more of the same. It’s been more than a month since they sent ravens to every house in Westeros seeking assistance in the war against the dead, and the responses have been trickling in. Smaller houses so far, the names blurring together. House Graceford, House Hawik, House Errol—

“House Banefort,” Davos sighs from the seat across her desk, throwing the scroll onto the table. “No.”

Sansa knew the answer before he spoke— they were sworn to Casterly Rock. She hadn’t cared much about her lessons with Maester Luwin when she was a child, but she’d absorbed and stored the information, to make herself an asset to her lord husband. It's become useful to her in ways she never would have pictured back then.

“Most of them are sworn to House Lannister,” Davos echoes her thoughts. “Perhaps the tide will change.”

Sansa doubts it. If House Tully, her own blood, wouldn’t come to their aid, why would any house of the Reach or the Stormlands or Dorne? But Sansa doesn’t give voice to her low expectations, doesn’t say what she thought when Jon and Davos proposed the idea. This isn’t like seeking allegiance from northern houses to reclaim Winterfell. They were sworn to House Stark, they knew the horrors of winter, even if they’d forgotten both. They were northern; they had to remember. 

No one in Westeros will help them. They’re on their own.

“As long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne, they won’t even consider coming to our aid,” Sansa says. “Even if they haven’t bent the knee to her. They won’t put a target on their back for a ghost story.”

Davos nods grimly, then looks at her with warm eyes. “Don’t lose hope, my lady.”

“Yes. The tide could turn,” she echoes his earlier words with a weak smile. “We need the Citadel. Only their influence could turn southern houses to us.”

“Then I’m afraid we’re doomed,” Davos says merrily. They both remember Sam’s reporting of the mockery the maesters of the Citadel made of the north’s ghost stories.

They peruse more correspondence, Davos’s shoulders slumping by noticeable degrees the further they got. Sansa wonders if he simply feels dejected, or if it’s a more personal defeat. She doesn’t know Davos nearly as well as Jon, but has spent quite a bit of time with him over the past year. He is a diplomat, a man who prides himself on persuasion, whether he realizes it or not. A diplomat of the best kind, impassioned speeches not bought but borne from deepest loyalty. Sansa watched him turn many a tide, as he likes to say, in cold, cavernous rooms all over the north.

“Would a pilgrimage have been more successful?” she asks.

Davos purses his lips for a moment, thinking. “Perhaps. But it would have been more dangerous, too. Not just for you and Jon. For the people here. They need to be led, they need to be…”

Sansa nods, understanding. _Protected. Watched._

Rapid knocks descend on the door of her office. “Come in.”

Alora opens the door, letting Jurnor in, who pants as if he’s been running. Brienne and Maester Wolkan follow.

“A man waits for you in the great hall, my lady. He demands to meet with you… urgently. He won’t give his name.”

Sansa blinks, absorbing the unexpected news. “Maester?”

Maester Wolkan shakes his head. “He wore no sigils. He’s dressed as a commoner. He seems… agitated, your grace. Won’t answer any questions, unless he speaks to you. He says he knows you, that he rode a long way to see you.”

Sansa frowns, combing her memory for such a man’s identity. Only Theon comes to mind— but he would be recognized by the maester instantly.

She rises from her chair. “Did he say where he came from?”

Maester Wolkan looks grim. “King’s Landing.”

Sansa meets Brienne’s clouded gaze over the maester’s shoulder. Wordlessly, they agree— Sansa sees it in the grim set of her mouth, in her presence here. There is no one who would travel from King’s Landing to see her who would wish her well.

“Let’s get this over with,” she mutters, sweeping from the room with her two guards, Brienne, Davos, and Maester Wolkan following closely.

A hand nudges hers, a discreet motion she’s become accustomed to. Sansa doesn’t look down, opens her palm to receive the tightly wrapped scroll from the maester. Hidden in her hand, she traces sigil on the wax seal, curious— a Lannister lion. Tyrion. Quickly she slides it into a small pocket sewn into the folds of her dress at her hip for this exact purpose. As she walks, it burns a hole in her side, begging to be read. _One thing at a time._

One glance at the man in the great hall confirms Maester Wolkan’s deductions. He looks like a commoner— not a costume, it’s in his skin and his hands and his eyes—and not one she recognizes. Blue eyes, a blunt crop of black hair. A thin layer of wool and a scrap of fur at his collar, poor imitation of a coat that could not have kept him warm as he journeyed through the north. His things lay at the feet of one of the guards posted at the closed doors; a bedroll, a pan, and a water skin tied onto a small pack. A warhammer.

“Can I help you, ser?”

The man finally looks at her, and Sansa is mildly surprised when his eyes don’t light with recognition. He looks like he’s never seen her before. He looks like he’s still waiting.

“I want to speak to the Lady of Winterfell,” he says.

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell.”

He blinks. _“You?”_ His bright eyes rove up her form harshly again and again, finally pausing at the direwolves across her chest. _“You’re_ Lady Stark?”

“You will speak to the Lady of Winterfell with respect,” Brienne interjects harshly.

The man ignores her. “Are you Sansa?”

“I am,” Sansa answers slowly, her heartbeat accelerating. This isn’t a man who feigned familiarity with her to seek an audience. This is something else.

“Where’s your sister?” he snaps. “Where’s Arya?”

Her stomach drops. Her voice shakes. “You know Arya?”

The man doesn’t answer, but the despair on his face is answer enough.

Sansa turns to Jurnor, her entire body trembling. “Summon the king,” she tells him. “It doesn’t matter what he’s doing. Bring Jon to me.”

“I’ll fetch him,” Davos interjects, stepping into the light. Sansa watches as the newcomer’s eyes finally fill with recognition, his expression trapped between wariness and joy.

“Gendry,” Davos says warmly. “It’s good to see you, son.”

* * *

After a fortnight in King’s Landing, Arya steals the right face to get into the Red Keep.

It was difficult, finding the face that would get her close to her target. Cersei Lannister never left the Red Keep. Her brother did, often, and Arya was tempted more than once to put him out of his apparent misery. But that wouldn’t serve her— Cersei had to die first, and it wouldn’t help to alert her to an assassin in their midst.

The part of her that’s no one considered working through faces as she needed them, as long as she got closer. But the rational part of her decided against it— someone might recognize the work of a faceless man, perhaps that caped sniveler who wore the Hand’s pin, and she couldn’t risk that.

She started in the kitchens, always a solid strategy. The boy whose face she took was fond of killing cats in alleys, liked to kick the hungry children who came begging for scraps. There was something about the cruel twist of his mouth that reminded her of Joffrey. So she slit him from chin to belly, like she watched him do to those cats. She left him like that for a minute before putting him out of his misery.

But she quickly learned that the kitchen boys had no access to the supposed Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. One of Cersei’s personal guard descended to the kitchen every day to make her meals himself. It was his face she needed to take.

Arya wears the kitchen boy’s face as she watches and waits. She can’t take the guard’s face while he’s making a meal, because the kitchen is bustling and busy, or while he’s transporting it, as a single bread roll or grape out of place could make Cersei suspicious.

As she explores, Arya tries to stick to the shadows, hard to do in the sunlit halls of the Red Keep. She thinks of going underground, to the quiet dark place she discovered when she explored here as a child. But no— Cersei wouldn’t be there, and she has to— wants to— _has_ to see her.

She hasn’t seen her yet, hasn’t actually laid eyes on her, not even from a distance. Every passing hour brings her closer; the realization makes her stomach flip.

Her footsteps are silent and light as air as she crosses underneath the shadowed edge of a wide balcony, one of four forming a square, indicating something to be viewed below. Arya pauses, listening intently for footsteps, and when she hears none steps to the edge. The floor of the room below has been covered in a map of Westeros. Arya quickly draws back, resumes her steps—and pauses when something presses on the edge of her senses.

A smell. Rotten, foul decay.

She doesn’t have a place to hide; the closest corner to turn is the opening of a hall across the square shaped structure. In less than the time it takes to draw a breath, Arya climbs to the sharp edge where the wall meets the ceiling, clinging there like a spider, making herself as small as possible in the shadows. The boy whose body she wears is larger than her, and she quickly contemplates returning to her own skin. But no— better to be seen as him than herself. She holds her breath, watching and listening.

The scent grows stronger, the sound of clambering footsteps following. And two more, lighter, _human._ Arya waits, sure that someone should be known to her by the sound of the steps, but no one appears.

“Have you fetched my brother?”

The voice permeates Arya’s mind, transporting her to memories she didn’t know she had. _Cersei._

The urge springs up like fire and burns up every inch of her body. _Kill her now._ She can descend, rip out her throat before anyone catches up to her, before they peel her off her body, before they kill her too.

 _It wouldn_ ’ _t matter if I died. Not if I took her down with me._

Arya breathes through her nose, still careful to be silent. No, there are others, other she has to live to kill. _Ilyn Payne. The Red Woman. Beric Dondarrion. Thoros of Myr._ Cersei doesn’t deserve a quick death, and she doesn’t deserve to take Arya with her. Cersei Lannister has taken enough from House Stark. Arya will kill her, and emerge unscathed, victorious. Just as she had with House Frey.

So she contains the urge to bite and claw behind her teeth.

“I have,” someone else speaks, and Arya realizes they’re below, in the room with the map. They could see her, if they move to the center of the room and look up. Silently, she lowers herself to the ground, bettering her chances of remaining unseen.

“Will he do it, your grace?” The other voice asks, and Arya thinks it belongs to her Hand, the old lizard-like man with the intelligent eyes she doesn’t recognize. “Will he go?”

No answer. The man speaks again, rushed, apologetic. “I don’t mean to question you. Only he seems… I do hope he doesn’t disappoint you.”

“Jaime’s become a shell of a man,” Cersei says. Her silken voice grates on Arya’s skin, makes it burn. Arya subdues the rage, swallowing furiously, willing herself to focus on the content of her words. “But he’s still my brother. He’s still the only person worthy of starting a legacy with.”

A moment passes. “You want a child,” the Hand says knowingly.

“My father was right about family,” Cersei says. “But this time, my child won’t hide behind another name, another sigil. This time, my child will be a Lannister— this time, my child will be _safe._ Nothing will harm them. They will inherit the earth.”

 _So her children_ were _Jaime_ _’s bastards… and all of them are dead._ Arya draws whatever conclusions she can from Cersei’s words, and stores the rest.

“And… his seed hasn’t yet taken root?”

Another silent beat. “He doesn’t come to my bed.” A delicate sigh. “Once, nothing could stop him. This will be his test. When he agrees to kill for me, as he was once so eager to, he will plant his seed in me. And it will grow while he brings me my gift.”

“And… if he fails the test?” The Hand sighs. “My queen, I agree that you need a heir. It’s the mark of a stable reign.”

“I’m well aware,” Cersei snaps. “I’ve been nothing more than a king’s broodmare most of my life.”

“I apologize, your grace.”

“He _will_ father my children… even if he proves unworthy to lay with me.”

“Yes,” the Hand agrees, and Arya briefly wonders what they could mean by that. _Not important._ “You will have your child, your enemies will be expunged… the stage is set.”

Footsteps; measured, purposeful. “What news?”

“The Queen of Thorns has refused to ally with Daenerys Targaryen.”

“A surprising show of sense from a daft old cunt.”

“I think she means to die in her home. She has nothing left.”

“I doubt it. She has a few thorns yet, and I am her only target.” More footsteps, then the same question repeated. “What news?”

“Ah… your brother has been in communications with Sansa Stark.”

Arya’s heart stops. _Sansa._ Her mind whirls— Sansa, involved in dealings with a Lannister? _Of course Sansa has dealings with a Lannister._ Where is she? Is she safe? Who has she become?

“I see,” comes the quiet, seething reply. “Not for much longer.”

* * *

“… Not for much longer.”

Cersei’s angry. Furious. Jaime recognizes the undercurrent of his sister’s tone, the one that promises wrath will follow.

He wonders why she summoned him this time. He wonders if it has something to do with Jon Snow’s ravens, the ones everyone in the city talked about for a fortnight. _Northern ghost stories,_ they said, the king in the north pleading with every lord in Westeros for aid to fight an army of living dead. Jaime heard of the ravens that way— through hearsay— and not from Cersei herself.

His steps are loud— purposely or not purposely so— either way, he announces his arrival. Cersei turns at the sound, and so does Qyburn, that hateful shadow at her side. He notices the Mountain immediately, always aware of him, standing on the far northern corner of the map.

Lannister red. Cersei is robed in it, a thicker gown than she would wear in the long summer but softer than anything he’s seen her in since his return to King’s Landing. The shroud of black is gone, the silver hardware. She wears a golden Lannister lion at her throat. Her hair nearly brushes her shoulders, gleaming in the lantern light. She looks like the woman he used to love. The woman he killed for. 

“Jaime,” she says, a warmer welcome than he’s received from her since he was taken by Robb Stark.

Jaime nods in greeting, ignores Qyburn entirely. His body is stiff. Something isn’t right. Her changed appearance, her changed mannerisms… she’s planning something. But then something glints in the hard emerald of her eyes, and she looks like Cersei again.

“Did you hear what we were speaking of, brother? Just now?”

“I didn’t.”

“Our brother hasn’t just been advising the dragon queen.” Jaime’s heart sinks. Cersei knows this, of course, pauses to let him feel the dread. “He’s been advising Sansa Stark as well.”

This isn’t what he expected. His mind struggles to connect the dots. “Why would she speak to him?”

“The thoughts and desires of that murderous whore don’t matter to me.” Cersei sneers.  “What matters is, why would _he_ speak to _her._ _”_

“Because he’s a traitor.” He raises his brows. “Right?”

Agitation flares in her eyes. “Traitors will be dealt with. _All_ my enemies will be dealt with.”

A strange smile transforms her face; it looks true, _true_ happiness, and it’s such an odd thing to see. It doesn’t belong in their world.

“I have a surprise, brother,” she near-whispers.

The unease, the stiffness, in his body, takes hold. He stretches his fingers to fight it off. “What is it?”

Cersei slowly backs away from him, moving north on the map. “Not enough lords have bent the knee. I ask you to round up my bannermen, and you do nothing.”

“You haven’t told me anything,” Jaime protests, though his words are hollow. He doesn’t feel betrayed. He feels nothing. He only wants to continue to _do_ nothing, and he will say what he has to say to get that. “Who are we fighting? Are you planning to attack the Targaryen girl? I won’t do your bidding if you keep me in the dark.”

Cersei pauses in her slow backwards walk, smiles at him. “I’ll tell you everything.” One step. Another. “There won’t be an attack on Dragonstone. My army will stay here. She will come to me.” 

Jaime doesn’t doubt it— a Targaryen is only capable of one thing. He thinks of fire swallowing the people of King’s Landing whole, leaving nothing but ashes. Does dragonfire leave behind bones? Wildfire doesn’t. He glares at Cersei.

“But I have a problem. If my army will be in King’s Landing and my enemies are elsewhere, how can they be killed?” She settles in the corner of the north, in the shadow of her undead protector. “And my Hand is quite adept at finding solutions to my problems.”

Jaime glances at the man, can’t resist. Qyburn’s lined face is smiling; a small, polite, humble thing.

She’s baiting him, she wants him to ask. Sheer stubbornness keeps him from giving in. She will say what she called him here to say, eventually. But he _is_ curious, anxious. He is _tired._ He wishes she would speak and be done with it.

“I’m sending assassins.” She grins. “A specialized sort… Qyburn’s creation.”

Behind her, the Mountain grunts. Qyburn releases a short laugh, the horrible sound echoing in Jaime’s ears. “Yes, yes, we’re talking about your brothers.”

Jaime snorts through his nose. He shakes his head. The horror they’re talking about— it can’t be true.

“Only _one_ brother,” Cersei continues, heedless to Jaime’s shock. “Isn’t that right, Qyburn?”

“The rest are coming, your grace. I swear it.”

“No,” Jaime gasps. “You made more of them?”

Qyburn’s smile has vanished, his gaze and voice cool. “I followed my queen’s commands.”

Jaime returns his attention to his sister. She still wears that smile— victorious, hollow.

“Why, Cersei? Why? You have _him_ to protect you already.” Jaime waves at the beast standing behind her, always close. “You control him— or he does— but can you control the others? Can they even be killed?”

Her grin turns sour. “Now, why would you ask me that?”

“Because it’s _stupid_ to create something stronger than you if you can’t kill it, a creature you don’t understand.”

“I understand the powers and limitations of my children quite well,” Qyburn says, in a reassuring tone that rings false. “And so does the queen. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m sending him north, Jaime.”

Jaime feels the blood drain from his face. _Brienne. Brienne, Brienne—this can_ _’t be happening._ But it is, it _is,_ and the dread filling his limbs like lead is proof.

Cersei gives him a placid smile. “And you’re going too.” 

* * *

_North._

That word can’t mean anything anymore, can’t mean what it used to— can it? Arya listens with bated breath. She doesn’t think she’s breathed in minutes, not since Cersei started talking about armies and assassins.

“When Qyburn told me the specifics of how long it would take to create all the creatures I need— it’s a long, delicate process— I thought carefully about which of my enemies I wanted to bleed first.”

Arya squirms, her chest squeezing painfully from the need to hear more, to understand. _North._

“I decided that I can wait for my other enemies to fall. But the girl who murdered my son— who _killed_ Joff— she’ll pay.”

Arya’s heart stops. There’s one… one who was rumored to have killed Joffrey, a murderess who was whispered about. _Wolf girl._

“You’ll go to Winterfell and you’ll bring me Sansa’s head.”

Arya’s suddenly more grateful than she’s ever been for the ground beneath her, for every trial she endured in her training. It takes every ounce of her discipline not to make a sound. _Sansa_ _’s in Winterfell._ Sansa’s home.

_And Cersei means to kill her._

“Do you want to start a war?” Jaime nearly yells. “Ned Stark’s son calls himself king, and we saw that the northerners follow him. I don’t think he will let the assassination of his sister go unpunished.”

Arya freezes, her heart surging again, impossibly. _It can_ _’t be._

“Oh, Jon Snow will die too. I don’t care what you do to that pretender’s body, it can be fodder for the dogs. But I have plans, Jaime, and the northerners will be no match for us when I’m done. You have but one part to play… try not to get captured again.”

Tears slip down Arya’s face, silent, warm. Warm as Jon Snow’s smile. For years, her willful suppression of every emotion—a necessity for her training, for her survival— was hardest when it came to him. The brother who gave her Needle, the sword she could never part with. The brother who is now a _king,_ who’d reclaimed their home.

 _Maybe they_ _’re all alive,_ she thinks recklessly, delirious with hope. _Maybe they_ _’re_ all _home._

She’ll be damned if she lets Cersei hurt any of them.

* * *

“Why would you send _me?_ _”_

Jaime is beyond weary; he feels he’s lived a hundred years. But he asks, even though he’s already decided that north is where he has to be, if that’s where Cersei’s set her sights. He doesn’t know more than that yet… his intentions, his allegiance, he’s far too worn to figure that out.

But he knows he won’t kill Sansa Stark.

“Why me,” he repeats, when Cersei doesn’t provide an answer. “You’ve already chosen your assassin.”

She holds his gaze. Emerald jewels, open wide, beseeching. “It’s important to me,” she says, as if that explains everything.

He supposes it does, it _would_ have, once upon a time.

“I won’t do it.” He meets her eyes. He speaks slowly, clearly. “I won’t.”

“You choose her?” Her voice hangs by a thread. Her chin trembles, a strangely girl-like reaction that fills him with instant regret. “You choose _Sansa Stark?!_ _”_

“Not her.” Someone else entirely. Maybe himself, too, the dregs of the knight that once existed.

He doesn’t say he swore an oath to Sansa’s mother to safely deliver her home. He doesn’t say it’s the only vow he’s ever fulfilled, and he doesn’t intend to break it now.

Instead he says, “I won’t help you start a war with the north. Not when the Targaryen girl is coming… we need to protect our people here.” 

Cersei scoffs. Her features twist with the force of her mockery, venom spilling from her mouth. “Do you think yourself a man of honor?”

No— no. His honor is beyond repair. He knows that.

 _(I know there is honor in you. I_ _’ve seen it myself.)_

“Your honor means nothing,” Cersei seethes. “It’s an _idea._ It’s dirt. You’d refuse me for it? You’d betray me?”

Jaime hangs his head. He doesn’t tell her that it isn’t honor, but strategy, to keep their meager armies whole when three dragons and an army are destined to come crashing down. She won’t hear it. She’s a lion with prey in her jaws, intent on tearing him to shreds.

“I’m not betraying you, when you made this choice alone.”

“I’m avenging my family.”

“You’re avenging yourself,” Jaime breaks. “Everything you do is for yourself.” 

“If Father could see you now,” she sneers. “Choosing a Stark bitch over your family.”

Everything within Jaime cracks; a blackened tree splintering from root to trunk to outermost branches. “Tell me what happened to Tommen.”

No answer, not even in her perfectly still face. Only silence, as he expected.

“I’d do anything for my family,” Jaime says, too tired to examine his words for the truth. “Everything I did for was for my family, my house. But House Lannister is dead.”

 _“We’re_ here.”

“We’ll die,” he retorts. “Me very soon, it seems… and if my days are numbered, I won’t spend them like this.”

Cersei joins her hands in front of her, and when she looks at him she looks more like herself, a self-satisfied twist to her mouth. “You won’t save her, you know. Or that oaf you sent north.”

Jaime ignores the thudding of his heart, suddenly a drum. “I know.” He hopes it’s a lie.

“You’ve accomplished nothing with your foolish stance. My assassin will find his target.”

“Where is it?” He knows the question is idiotic, but he can’t resist.

She smiles. “Long gone.”

Jaime closes his eyes briefly, before turning on his heel. “I’ll catch up.”

He hears her soft, broken intake of breath behind him. The clink of armor, the clambering footsteps, the stench; Jaime has many a warning before the Mountain blocks his path, but still he doesn’t move quick enough.

He stops short. He looks between the Mountain’s ironically polished chest of armor and his sister’s face behind him. Her features are wax, revealing nothing.

“Are you going to order him to kill me?”

Her mouth is a hard line. _Yes,_ he realizes. Yes, she might.

“You’re walking away from me,” she says, eerily soft. “I can’t allow that.”

Jaime glances at the Mountain once before turning to at her. “Then do it.” Inside, he is finally still. It’s a mild surprise, to find himself resigned to death. “You’ll be a kinslayer like the brother you hate so much.”

Her eye twitches; her mouth coils, something close to a growl emitting from her lips. “Everything I _do_ is for my kin.”

Jaime shakes his head, takes a step around the Mountain. “I don’t believe you.”

* * *

He isn’t looking when the first blow falls, when the pain explodes across his back.

* * *

Winterfell. _Home._ A sister and a brother— that’s her next destination. When Arya thinks of how quickly she would have given herself to death only minutes before, if only she’d exacted her revenge first, she balks. Already, she feels like she exists in a different world. No, she _has_ to live.

She has to save them.

But first—

Cersei can’t be allowed to live. Not just because Arya will never get this close again. But because Cersei Lannister’s crimes no longer exist in the past. Cersei wants to kill Sansa, has crowned her prime among her enemies, the first of her targets. She won’t stop until Sansa is dead.

Arya will never let that happen. 

Her form pasted to the floor, Arya crawls to the edge of the perch to peek between the pillars, trying to stay out of the light. She looks. She sees the top of Cersei’s golden head, the cloaked Hand a few feet away. She sees Jaime, and the— _thing_ standing in front of him.

She gasps, stopping herself a moment too late. It’s barely a sound; no one looks up, and Arya looks her fill.

It’s not a man, that much is clear. It’s the size of two men, and it’s the source of the scent of decay filling her nostrils. A rotting half-giant somehow standing, somehow _moving,_ a living monster that takes orders from Cersei.

Understanding spears her. A monster like this one is the assassin headed for Winterfell.

Arya pauses to deliberate, every moment of indecision deeply painful. _Kill her or go. Kill her or go._ She can’t afford to waste time.

If she attacks, it will be that _thing_ she’s fighting— not any living man. A faceless man can kill anyone. But can she kill a thing that’s already dead?

No, Cersei can’t live… but Arya can’t die. She’s the only one who knows of the assassin already headed to Winterfell, the only one who can save her family.

She decides, slithering back to the shadows.

Arya doesn’t see the swing of the sword, but she hears the wretched groan, smells the rust scent of blood. A moment later, she hears the clang of steel against steel. She doesn’t stop. She keeps moving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> share your thoughts and feelings below!!!!
> 
> btw, you can always find me [on tumblr!](http://www.missfaber.tumblr.com)


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